


The Portofino Job

by ChaosandMayhem



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Canon Elements, Comedy, Cruise Ships, DON'T BE SUSPICIOUS, EMATverse, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friendship, Machines Don't Bleed, Midquel, Not Canon Compliant, Romance, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2020-07-31 06:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20110996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaosandMayhem/pseuds/ChaosandMayhem
Summary: The contract? Stop an infamous international thief from making off with Mann Co. property. The setting? A high-tech, state-of-the-line luxury cruiser making its way across the Atlantic. The catch? It’s filled to the brim with yuppie couples who believe in things like “yoga” and “therapy”. To catch their man they’ll have to blend in and keep their heads low…something easier said than done for a pair like Sniper and Spy.





	1. We Will Never Speak Of This

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone, it's Chaos, trying to give posting a long-fic on AO3 a proper chance. Watching the Crate Depression happen in real time only served to remind me how much I loved and missed these idiots, and how fun it would be to revisit them. After a couple of days of thinking, I came up with an idea that doesn't mess with the canon of the EMATverse too much. 
> 
> This is a midquel, set in the years between "I'll Be Home for the Holidays" and "Machines Don't Bleed"; as such, it leans on the former moreso than the latter for canonical content. If you're new here, no worries! I'm writing The Portofino Job to be as newcomer-friendly as possible (only the framing device references past events super hard).
> 
> This is also intended to be much lighter and tongue-in-cheek than any of the EMATverse stuff. It's just for fun. And, as always, thanks to Belphegor for her quick beta work and her glee at seeing these idiots again. :3
> 
> So without further ado, here we go again!
> 
> ~Chaos

**Prologue: We Will Never Speak Of This**

_Australia, 1973_

“And that’s when she said—_we’re all outta ice_!”

Laughter exploded across the darkened bar. It was nearly three in the morning, but judging from the laughter the three men alone in the bar had no intention of quitting any time soon.

Christian Byron-Read was doubled over; laughing so hard his forehead almost hit the smooth wood of the bar. Just across from him, Lawrence Mundy, Jr. and Philippe Vidal leaned on each other for support, trying not to fall off the barstools even as they rocked with laughter. At the other end of the bar, Blake Porter had passed out cold, a number of empty beer bottles in front of him.

“Christ Almighty, that’s a good one,” Christian finally said, breathing hard to catch his breath. He straightened, popped open another bottle of bourbon, and gave Philippe’s empty glass a generous pour. “How ‘bout you, Phil? Most embarrassing mission you’ve ever been on?”

“The time I accepted a contract to work with seven men and one mumbling weirdo in the New Mexico desert.” Philippe replied without missing a beat. He detached himself from Lawrence and straightened up.

“Har-har, ya ponce.” Lawrence nudged him amicably. “C’mon, give us a real answer.”

Philippe just shrugged and reached for the glass of bourbon. “Unlike _some_ people, I do my job right the first time.”

“What about the Portofino job?”

Christian ducked as a sudden spray of bourbon went flying over the bar. He reappeared in time to see Philippe glaring daggers into Lawrence. Lawrence just grinned back, in almost lazy fashion.

“We swore never to speak of the Portofino job,” Philippe said with a sniff. 

“Yeah, well, there’s lotsa things we swore never to do.” Lawrence gave him another nudge. “C’mon, Phil, it wasn’t that bad…”

“Oh, yes it was! It was _completely _embarrassing. _You_ were completely embarrassing!”

“I—” Lawrence picked up his half-finished bottle of beer, one of many in front of him “—am too drunk to care.”

“Well, now I gotta hear this,” Christian said. He leaned forward and waggled the bourbon in front of Philippe. “C’mon, you two, tell me about the Portofino job and I’ll let you have this one on the house.”

“I thought they were all on the house!” Lawrence exclaimed.

“Not on your life, Mundy.”

Philippe considered Christian’s shit-eating grin before throwing one hand into the air. “Very well! But if ‘e wakes up—” He pointed, almost accusingly, towards the passed-out Blake “—I never said a word about the Portofino job. And you—” He rounded on Christian “—will keep your mouth shut about whatever I’m about to tell you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Christian waved a hand around. “Get on with it, then.”

Philippe sighed, ignored the smug look on Lawrence’s face, and sat forward. “Everything I’m about to tell you is Lawrence’s fault.”


	2. All Expenses Paid

**Chapter One: All Expenses Paid**

_Teufort, 1969_

“VICTORY.”

The Administrator’s cold tone rang loud and clear across Teufort. Spy paused in the middle of one of Teufort’s narrow corridors and breathed a sigh of relief. Now that the work day had ended, he wouldn’t be forced to go and rejoin the fray in a tattered, bloodstained suit. There were few deaths as so ruinous to a suit as being eviscerated by a Soldier’s stray rocket.

He tucked his butterfly knife back into his belt, but nevertheless continued back outside into the searing New Mexican sunlight. He could hear his team cheering in the distance, and the groans of the BLUs just under that, but celebration disinterested him for the moment. His feet led him, almost unconsciously, to a tucked-away ladder at the base of a rickety tower.

Sniper was still sitting on an overturned crate, hunched over and peering through his scope at the battlefield below. He was perfectly still; had it not been for the sound of soft breathing, Spy would have been forgiven for assuming he was dead. He approached Sniper, patiently waiting for the squeak of Italian leather against old wood to give him away. When Sniper still did not move he sighed.

“Mon Dieu, a congress of baboons could leap through this room and you would not rise.”

Sniper jumped in place, wrenching himself back from his scope. He twisted to face Spy, relaxing the instant their eyes locked. “Oh. Hey, Phil. How’s it?”

“This suit will need an extended stay at the cleaner’s, alas, but otherwise I am unharmed,” Spy replied. He gave Sniper a long, appraising look, watching the way he rose stiffly from the crate he was sitting on. “And yourself? I admit, I did not ‘ear so much as a peep from you over the radio today—”

Sniper’s fist shot out and clocked him in the nose.

Spy staggered back, his nose stinging in pain. “AUGH! What the—”

“Sorry, jus’ makin’ sure yer not the BLU Spy.” Sniper squinted at him. “Not like ya to inquire—”

Spy swung his fist forward, punching Sniper squarely in the jaw in revenge. Sniper’s yelp did not lessen his own aching nose, but it did wonders for his soul. “I was making polite conversation, you idiot barbarian! ‘ow you turned out the way you did considering your perfectly charming mother is a wonder.”

Sniper, to his credit, took his lumps without complaint. He grimaced, rubbed at his jaw, and gave Spy his best apologetic look. “Sorry.” He jerked his thumb out the window. “Shouldn’t ya get back down there?”

Spy arched his eyebrows. Sniper had been watching through his scope intently, but clearly he hadn’t been paying an ounce of attention to what was actually happening. “We won, Lawrence. The day’s over.”

As if to prove his point, there was an earth-shattering BOOM just outside the window. A split-second later, Soldier rocketed past the window, screaming about victory and America. And then Soldier plummeted as fast as he appeared, hitting the ground with a sickening THUD. The screams of victory twisted into a cry of “MY ARM!”. 

There was a beat as both Sniper and Spy stared out the window and then exchanged glances. 

“Not our problem,” Spy said.

“Not our problem,” Sniper agreed. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “C’mon, let’s go grab some beers before the rest of the team drinks ‘em all.”

He slung his rifle over his shoulder and made a beeline for the ladder. Spy made the mistake of blinking, and Sniper was gone. The rapid switch from causal to businesslike was nothing new to him—in fact, it was the solid foundation of he and Sniper’s friendship—but Sniper’s unusual absent-mindedness disturbed him. Was everything all right? Had he heard some terrible news from his family? If there was, Sniper would tell him, right?

He didn’t know which irked him more: the idea that Sniper was keeping secrets from him or the idea that he was hurt by Sniper keeping secrets from him. 

Spy shook his head to clear the dire thoughts away. It was the weekend, and more importantly it was a victorious weekend. He had little interest in spending his free time fretting over a sulking Sniper. So he made his way down the ladder, brushed some dust off his ruined suit, and set off the rejoin the rest of the REDs as they meandered back into the base. Spy fixed his eyes on Sniper’s back and let the tide of conversation wash over him:

“Hey, Engie, can ya give me a ride into town tonight? I gotta pick up a new case of Bonk.”

“That stuff is poison, but sure—so long as we’re back by seven. I ain’t missin’ Jeopardy—”

“Huddah huddah?”

“Yes, Py, I’m sure you’d do beautifully on Jeopardy—”

“Soldier, get over here und get healed! You cannot be swinging around a broken arm like zhat!”

“HA! I’m all right, doc, I got at least thirty other bones that can replace this one!”

“…no, you very much do not.”

Heavy and Demoman were chatting just inside the entrance, the latter perking up a bit as Sniper walked by. “Oi! Mundy! Ye wanna join us for the rugby match? Engie fixed up a radio for us to listenin’ long-distance—

“Nah, I’m good.” Sniper didn’t even break his stride as he spoke. He waved a vague hand around in Demoman’s direction. “Thanks, though, mates.”

Spy stopped short beside Heavy and Demoman. Together they watched Sniper round the corner towards the showers, humming _Waltzing Matilda_. Heavy and Demoman both looked to Spy with eyebrows cocked, waiting for an explanation.

“What’s got into ‘im, then, eh?” Demoman asked when no explanation appeared.

Spy shrugged, pretending for the entire world that Sniper’s sudden reversion to aloofness mattered little to him. Which failed miserably considering every man in the RED base had watched Sniper and Spy grow into an inseparable pair over the past two years, but credit for trying.

“Sniper has been quiet all day,” Heavy said, also with a shrug. “Mood will pass, I am sure.”

“Aye,” Demoman said. He clapped Spy on the shoulder in a gesture surely meant to be consolatory. “Give ‘im a day, he’ll be right as rain again. Don’t fret.”

“I never fret,” Spy shot back. He yanked himself out of Demoman’s grasp and started for the lockers. Behind him, Demoman and Heavy exchanged amused looks.

He did not _fret_. To even assume he did something as so banal as fret was an insult to his character and his profession. Fretting was for old women who wore bad hats and drank too much. He was…concerned, perhaps, in a passing manner, about his best friend’s distracted attitude. That much he could admit to himself. Perhaps he would pay a visit to Sniper’s van later, share a drink, and try to pry the truth out of him…with a crowbar, if necessary…

So distracted was Spy that he nearly missed the note sitting in his locker. Spy quirked an eyebrow at it. Secret notes? That was a new one. He glanced around. Sniper was nowhere to be seen, and the rest of the REDs were still trailing behind.

Cautiously, half-expecting an explosion, Spy pulled out the note and unfolded it.

_2:45 am. Meeting Room._

Well, Spy thought to himself as he tucked the note away, as far as love letters went, that was certainly very succinct.

**…**

Sniper sequestered himself away for the rest of the evening, leaving Spy to fend off inquiries about where Sniper was and whether he was all right. It was certainly very _taxing_, caring enough about people to respect their need for privacy. And all the while he was aware of the brisk little message in his pocket. Too brisk for Sniper. But who else would have passed a message along like this? The BLU Spy, perhaps?

At any rate, when the clock ticked towards two-forty Spy was just outside the meeting room. He had flattened himself against the wall with butterfly knife drawn. The RED base was dark and quiet, save for the light spilling out from underneath the meeting room’s door, and the soft pat-pat of someone pacing back and forth.

Someone was already in the room.

Spy waited for that pat-pat to pass him by once more, took a deep breath, and burst through the door. He hit a block of muscle so hard they both hit the tile floor. Instantly Spy was sitting up, straddling the mystery man and going for his knife—

“YA TWITCHY PONCE—IT’S ME!—_GETOFF_!”

Spy froze in place, staring down at the Sniper he currently had pinned to the floor. Sniper glared right back at him. “Lawrence!”

“Hey there, Phil.” With that Sniper bucked his hips, sending Spy sprawling to the floor. He got to his feet, dusted himself off, and outstretched a hand to Spy. Spy took it, allowing Sniper to haul him up.

“My apologies,” Spy said, trying not to feel sheepish and ending up feeling like a whole flock. He tucked his butterfly knife away. “What are you doing awake?” 

“I could ask the same thing of ya. If ya wanted to talk, ya didn’t have to pass notes like we’re still in school.” As he spoke, Sniper reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded note. He glared at Phil accusingly. “We could’ve talked after dinner if there was somethin’ ya wanted to discuss.”

“Then why didn’t you approach me after dinner?” Spy asked, even as his eyes flicked between the note and Sniper’s face.

Sniper cleared his throat. “Because I—I was busy.”

“_Busy_?”

“Yeah. With things.”

“_Things_?”

“Yeah.” Sniper’s tone became somewhat defensive. “Things.”

Spy had a mind to forge ahead and figure out what those things were. But propriety cut his usual nosiness off before it could really begin. He sighed. “Alas, it is not I who gave you the note. I received a similar one.”

He passed his own note to Sniper, who took it and frowned. “Then who—?”

“Gentlemen.”

Both men jumped as the monitor mounted on the wall crackled to life. There sat the Administrator, looking cool and collected as ever. She folded her hands on her lap. “I trust I’m not interrupting anything.”

Spy recovered first, pivoting to the monitor with a coolness that rivaled his superior’s. “Administrator. What an unexpected surprise.” Unwanted, more like. Whenever the Administrator appeared to personally meddle in their jobs, trouble was not far behind.

If the Administrator heard the vitriol behind Spy’s words, she chose to let it pass. “I suppose you’re wondering why I summoned you both here this evening.”

“Either you’re going to kill us or we’re due for a raise.”

The Administrator raised an eyebrow at Spy’s glib tone and Sniper’s subsequent snort. Amusement, or something close to it, flitted across her narrow face. Then she shook her head. “Two excellent guesses, but wrong on both accounts.”

Sniper and Spy glanced at each other. Sniper’s nostrils flared. “What is it, then?”

“I have a….special mission for the pair of you.” The Administrator spoke slowly, as though every word caused her discomfort. Or rather, as close to discomfort as she could possibly get. “A mission that requires a sense of subtlety and sophistication.”

“And yer askin’ the pair of us?” Sniper asked. He indicated the small space between he and Spy.

“Some of us ‘ave sophistication.”

“Oh really? Then why weren’t they invited to this meetin’ of the minds?”

Spy elbowed him in the ribs, which only made Sniper guffaw. The Administrator just rolled her eyes. She had spent too many days watching their antics to be shocked. Instead she carried on: “Of the current stock of mercenaries under my command, you two are the best suited for the job. I assure you, if I were not backed into a corner so, I would not trust either of you with a mission of this…sensitivity.”

“Let’s hear it, then,” Sniper said as he settled himself into a chair. Spy remained standing with arms folded over his chest.

“Recently, several important pieces of technology and weaponry were stolen from a Mann Co. facility located in Florida. I believe it was the one that specialized in alligator wrestling equipment. At any rate, Saxton Hale is irate and demanding my help in retrieving the stole property.”

Spy’s eyes widened. Whatever else Mann Co. was, it was always at the cutting edge in the latest of ‘killing violently’ industry. Breaking into a Mann Co. facility was no easy feat, let alone making off with some of the weaponry. “Do you know the identity of the thief?”

“He did leave a rather charming calling card.” The Administrator said. She leaned forward, all the better to lock eyes with Spy. “We’re dealing with Solomon Esker.”

“_Solomon Esker_?” Spy repeated, incredulous.

Sniper glanced up at him with eyebrows knitted. “Ya know him?”

“I know _of_ him. He’s one of the best thieves in the world, though he’s never been so inclined to work for anyone save himself. He’s highly secretive. Several spies have spent the better part of the last decade trying to ‘unt ‘im down.” He frowned at the Administrator. “What makes you think we can bring ‘im in?”

“We were able to uncover some correspondence between Esker and a party potentially interested in the technology he stole from us. They are to meet in a week in Portofino—”

Here the Administrator paused.

“Portofino?”

“That’s in Italy, bushman. I understand if it’s too much for you to ‘ave passed geography.”

“Don’t need to pass geography to plant my boot up yer arse, spook.”

And here the Administrator resumed:

“—and he will be traveling there by boat. Cruise, more specifically. I believe Esker is treating his wife to a vacation on the high seas, and using the cruise as a cover to get his contraband from one continent to the other.”

“So you want us on that boat?” Sniper said.

“I’d rather it be you two than your charming associate Soldier,” the Administrator sighed. She leaned back in her chair. “As it stands, I have a limited number of mercenaries at my disposal, and even fewer active in America. As much as I dislike it, Snipers and Spies are the only ones I can spare temporarily. The only ones I trust not to immediately tip off Esker with their eccentric behavior, I should say. Am I making myself clear?”

“Neutralize Esker and recover the stolen technology,” Spy said. “I trust you’ll ‘ave some means of making contact with us in Portofino?”

She nodded. “Try not to make a mess or murder too many people in the meantime. Witnesses, you know, they are _such_ a hassle to deal with.”

“What about our jobs here?” Sniper tilted his head to the side. “Seven on nine hardly seems fair.”

“Your counterparts in blue will be similarly occupied elsewhere. Until such time as you both return, the battles will be seven on seven, evenly matched.”

Sniper and Spy exchanged another glance. Could their positions really be removed from the equation so easily?

Sensing hesitation, the Administrator sighed. “For what it’s worth, to compensate your time and effort, I’m willing to double your current pay. Your mission will also take you off-base for a week, a week and a half at most. Consider it a…small vacation.”

Sniper perked up almost instantly, moreso at the word vacation than the promise of overtime pay. Spy was not so eager to take the bait. “We’ll need time to consider this.”

“Of course. I expect a reply within the next twelve hours.”

The monitor clicked off, leaving Sniper and Spy to look at each other. Sniper shrugged. “What do ya think? A week off-base doesn’t sound too bad.”

“It’s not a vacation, Lawrence, it’s a mission,” Spy said. He snapped open his cigarette case with clear agitation. “We’re tracking down one of the most elusive thieves in history! The name Solomon Esker strikes fear into the heart of casinos, museums, and banks the world over!”

“Well,” Sniper scoffed, “_I’ve_ never heard of him.”

“You’d never ‘eard of a comb until I introduced you to one.” Spy swatted Sniper upside the head gently, making the other laugh as he got to his feet again.

“I mean…t’ain’t the worst sort’ve mission we’ve ever done, right?”

“Lawrence, if you think I’m going to spend five minutes crammed into a sardine can of a ship with you, then you are out of your already tiny mind.”

For a long moment the two men just stared at each other: Sniper with hands on his hips, Spy puffing away at a cigarette. The scene felt almost surreal. It was impossible to think that in a day they could be surrounded by crystal-clear water, chugging away on a luxury cruise liner, being served fruity drinks top-side and watching women in bikinis…while hunting an infamous international thief, of course.

Sniper shrugged once more. “Fine, then, I’ll do it meself.” He pivoted on his heel and made for the door. He was just across the threshold when Spy snorted.

“And get killed for your trouble? I don’t think so. You, you idiot dingo, wouldn’t know discretion if it stabbed you in the back.”

“Sounds like I’m gonna need someone to watch my back, then,” Sniper said cheerily.

“Indeed you are. And that is why I am going.” Spy took another drag from his cigarette. “To keep you from getting killed, not because I might find some enjoyment on an all-expense paid vacation cruise ship.”

“Glad we’re in agreement, then.”

“Indeed.”

Sniper was still standing the threshold, evidently waiting for something. Spy considered him, considered his secretive attitude earlier, and wondered once more what was wrong. The words to say as much failed him, however, and instead he just cleared his throat. “Good night, Lawrence.”

Sniper smiled wanly. “Night, Phil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to pretend I didn't get this idea after seeing one too many Sandals Resorts commercials.
> 
> Ciao for now!
> 
> Chaos


	3. Miami Beach Bums

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, everyone! Thank you so much for the warm reception the boys received upon their triumphant return! Also, I don't know anything about boats. But that has never stopped me. 
> 
> As always, thanks to Belphegor for her beta work, and to Fang and Jo for the fanart--Sniper in socks and sandals is truly an inspired choice.

**Chapter Two: Miami Beach Bums**

“—C’mon, this ain’t fair, how come the Administrator is lettin’ youse two go—”

“Perhaps,” Spy said airily, cutting Scout’s rant short, “she likes us best and wants to reward us for good service.”

The pair, plus Engineer, made their way across the base towards Sniper’s van. Spy held one suitcase; Scout lugged along the either, although the weight didn’t stop him from complaining. Scout hadn’t stopped whining since Sniper and Spy made their personal mission known, and for that Spy was almost glad of the momentary break. The rest of the team received the news with a mixture of sulks and smirks, depending on who they were. Engineer landed firmly on the smirking side, and even now he was giving Spy looks behind the yammering Scout’s back. Spy, for his part, was doing a valiant job of not shooting either of them.

As they neared the van Scout tossed Spy’s expensive leather suitcase into the dirt. “I hope Snipes throws ya overboard. See ya.”

Scout stalked back to the base, leaving Spy and Engineer to roll their eyes at his retreating back. Spy took the dirtied suitcase in his free hand. “If you shoot ‘im, I won’t blame you in the slightest.”

“He’ll keep us entertained,” Engineer said. “It’s gonna be awful quiet ‘round here without you two. Be careful, huh? Get us a couple of postcards.”

“Perhaps. If the charitable mood strikes me.”

“Don’t throw Down Under overboard.”

“On that, I make no promises.”

Engineer laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and started off after Scout. Spy finished the trek to the Mundymobile, set his suitcases down, and knocked. A bang and a few muffled curses served as his answer. The unmistakable sound of something heavy being shoved aside had Spy raising his eyebrows. It took a good thirty seconds for Sniper to finally wrench the van door open, looking a little out-of-breath and disheveled.

“Redecorating, are we?” Spy said, leaning around Sniper to study the dim interior of the Mundymobile.

“Oh, hush. Jus’ takin’ care of some business,” Sniper said as he stepped back, allowing Spy to haul his suitcases up into the van. He set them down beside Sniper’s battered, sticker-laden suitcases and took a quick look around. The Mundymobile didn’t _look_ any different. He glanced surreptitiously at the cabinets where Sniper usually kept snacks and (mercifully) empty jars. Those cabinets could hide all sorts of things…

“Phil? Ready?”

Sniper’s question jolted Spy out of his thoughts. Sniper was already in the driver’s seat, buckled and ready to go. Spy slipped into his usual spot in the passenger seat. The Mundymobile started with a low growl. Pebbles and dirt cracked under the heavy tire as it pulled forward, away from the Teufort base.

Spy kicked his feet up onto the dashboard and folded his arms behind his head. His gaze fixed on the visor overhead. A new photo poked out from behind the visor. Spy shifted enough to pull the photo out, ignoring the small noise of consternation Sniper made.

Lizzie Mundy sat on the recognizably-quaint rug of the Mundy residence, with a beaming little baby in her lap. The little girl had a chubby fist raised into the air and a beaming smile plastered onto her round face. She was still very young, but it was already obvious the baby would inherit the Mundy ears.

“This is new,” Spy said.

“Yeah. I got it just the other day in the mail from my mum. Lauren’s finally sittin’ up on her own.” There was a touch of pride in Sniper’s voice. 

Spy allowed himself a small smile. He tucked the photo back into the visor. “And ‘ow is the little one?”

“Little. Countin’ the days ‘til Christmas break, so I can go and see everyone.”

“Are they well? Elizabeth and your parents?”

“Hm?” Sniper took his eyes off the road long enough to shrug at Spy. “Oh, yeah, they’re great.”

Spy waited for Sniper to elaborate. Sniper just twisted back to watch the road. An awkward silence lapsed between them. Sniper drummed his fingers against the steering wheel; Spy plucked at his gloves before helping himself to the mints Sniper kept hidden in the glove box. Only the grumble of the van’s engine served to break the silence.

“Why d’ya reckon it’s always us two?” Sniper said after about twenty minutes of quiet. “Endin’ up like this?”

“Mmm. Perhaps we are destined to drive each other insane. Or throw each other overboard.”

**...**

“There are certainly a lot of _old_ people ‘ere.”

“Snowbirds follow the warm weather. S’a fact of nature.”

This Sniper called from the dingy motel bathroom. He’d slid in there after a trip to the local beachfront shop, and Spy could only guess at what gaudy, tropical-themed horrors Sniper was about to inflict upon him. The trip from the dry, sunny Albuquerque airport to the humid sunny Miami airport had taken only a day. It had been a thoroughly uneventful day and as such Spy had taken to looking out the motel window to alleviate his boredom. 

From the window he could see the street, a row of condos, and the gleaming shore just beyond. The beach held little attraction for him; he was more interested in the people crossing the street. If New Mexico was the Land of Enchantment, Spy mused, than Florida could only be the Land of Geriatrics. Watching the elderly folk totter back and forth across the street, Miami looked more like a retirement community than the sunny, sexy, ever-constant beach party he’d always heard about. Still…it was sunny, and the beach was right there, and there had to be some bikini-clad women hanging around _somewhere_. It wouldn’t be such a bad place to retire, Spy mused, but for all the old people hanging around.

“I suppose there are worse retirement communities,” Spy said at last. He stared out the window, fascinated by an elderly woman chugging a margarita as she ambled across the street. 

“Thinkin’ of retirin’, huh?” Sniper replied. His voice grew less muffled. “I knew you were old, but I never pegged ya for that old. Should we get ya a walker while we’re here?”

“I’m still spry enough to kick your arse. Remember that, bushman.” Spy pivoted on his heel to face Sniper as he emerged from the bathroom. His eyes widened in horror. His unlit cigarette slipped from his mouth and hit the carpeted floor.

“What. Are. _Those_.”

Two giant, hairy, pale caterpillars poked out from the criminally short, criminally ugly khakis Sniper had most certainly_ not_ being wearing before he went into the bathroom. Spy stared in morbid fascination as Sniper strutted forward. The bushman’s tan lines were _horrendous_. So horrendous they nearly distracted him from those despicable khaki shorts—right up until Sniper stopped short and did a full turn in front of him. The noise Spy made was somewhere between a cat dumped into water and nails scraping down a chalkboard.

Sniper chuckled and did another turn, treating Spy to a good, long look at his khaki-clad backside as he did so. “What? Ya don’t like ‘em?”

“NO!” Spy bellowed. He gave Sniper a swift kick in the pants. “Those are the epitome of bad taste!”

Sniper clucked his tongue. “Then ya need to see what I got ya at the store.”

“If it’s a pair of khaki shorts, I’d rather ‘ave my eyes plucked out by a thousand doves—”

With a flourish, Sniper produced a tacky straw sun hat and planted it on Spy’s head. Spy snatched it off just as quickly. He tossed it onto the bed even as he glared daggers at Sniper’s stupid smug grin.

“Ya need to lighten up,” Sniper said. The smug grin remained fixed to his face.

“You,” Spy said as he sank down onto the bed, “need to start treating this mission a little more seriously.”

“C’mon—” As he spoke, Sniper left one leg up and planted his foot on the bed. The noise Spy made had him grinning even wider. “What’s the matter? Too much man for ya?”

“YES! Entirely too much man for me—_go put some damn pants on_!”

“These _are_ pants, ya high-fluentin’ pompous baguette—”

“You oversized idiot dingo! What ‘appened to being a professional?”

“Ya want us both t’look like we just left an active warzone? We gotta blend in!”

“There are plenty of ways to blend in without restoring to blinding every passerby with your lily-white thighs!”

“For _shame_, Phil.”

“Lawrence, I am exactly _three seconds_ away from—”

What, exactly, Spy was three seconds away from doing Sniper never found out. Spy snapped his mouth shut, eyes narrowing abruptly. His whole body tensed. Sniper tensed as well. After a moment he heard what Spy had: the faint creak of a shoe against old wood, right outside their door.

In an instant the khaki shorts and straw hat were forgotten. Spy nodded at Sniper once before cloaking. Sniper rolled his shoulders, and in lieu of a weapon cracked his knuckles. He padded up to the door, the invisible Spy at his back. “I’ll open the door,” he mouthed. The squeeze on his shoulder told him Spy understood.

Spy positioned himself in front of the door, ready to fly through the door and tackle their eavesdropper. Sniper grabbed the handle, took a deep breath, and readied himself to fling it open—

Then a manila folder slipped under the door.

Sniper stared at it. With a hiss Spy decloaked, gray-blue eyes narrowed at the folder. Spy snapped open his cigarette case, withdrew one of his cigarettes, and tossed it down on top of the folder.

Both men jumped backwards.

The manila folder did not explode.

Sniper breathed out a sigh of relief as Spy bent to retrieve the folder. He flipped it open, moving back to sit on the bed. Sniper sank down beside him.

Together they stared at the simple brochure and two first-class tickets tucked neatly together, along with a note that simply read ‘Good luck’. Spy handed both tickets off to Sniper, who squinted at them. “Looks like we’re disembarkin’ at two-thirty. Where from, though?”

“The _Azure Princess_,” Spy replied as he yanked the brochure open. The full-spread inside was the essence of youth and vibrancy missing from the Miami streets: the bathing suit-clad models posed around a pool, colorful drinks in hand. A list of the _Azure Princess_’s amenities floated around their perfectly-styled heads. Yoga…all-you-can-eat buffets…massages….game nights with prizes…couples activities…two indoor pools…

The two middle-aged men took in the advertisement with a mounting sense of dread. True, they were still spry and agile, quick on their feet and quick with their reflexes. But they weren’t exactly spring chickens either. Looking down at the smiling, sexy youths in the brochure, both men felt closer to one-hundred-and-three than twenty-three. 

“You know, Lawrence,” Spy said as he closed the brochure. “I think we’re being punished.”

“Agreed,” Sniper said glumly.

**...**

Punishment or not, both men were still at the crowded pier when the time came, bags in hand. Spy stepped out of the taxi first, leaving Sniper to stuff a wad of bills into the driver’s hand. Spy slid on a pair of sunglasses to combat the afternoon sun and pursed his lips. He needed to get a good sense of their newest battlefield.

Although advertised as a cruise ship, the _Azure Princess_ was more accurately an ocean liner. During the war it had been used as for troop transport, and before that it had ferried immigrants across the Atlantic. At some point the _Azure Princess_ had been purchased by a private company, renamed and redecorated and polished to a shine. It now served as a luxury passenger ship, ferrying wealthy yuppies from one continent to the other. She clocked in at about eight-hundred feet long and two-hundred feet tall. Wind screens around the main deck shielded passengers from the wind and spray as the ship sliced through the ocean waves. Sprouting up from the main deck were five levels of floors. Another seven levels could be found within the ship itself. Spy wasn’t sure how she ran, but it didn’t appear to be by steam or diesel. He could only assume some Australian technology was involved, given her wartime performance. And given all the action she had seen, Spy was confident this ship wasn’t going down. Mostly.

Sniper stood next to him, squinting up at the _Azure Princess_ from behind his aviators. “S’a big boat.”

“Ship,” Spy said.

“Whatever.”

Spy’s gaze fell back down to the dock to study the throng of people around them. Sure enough, the brochure had attracted the right clientele: all that could be seen were young couples in their twenties and early thirties, clutching at each other and day-drinking. There was the unmistakable scent of daddy’s money in the air. These were East Coasters, Spy surmised from the bits of accent he caught, and New England in particular. _Great_. He was going to be stuck on a ship with bunch of upper-crust old-money Protestant types—and not one of them knew how to dress well. Sniper’s ridiculous khakis were easily lost amid a sea of plaid shorts and eye-searing psychedelic nonsense. A few women had dolled themselves up in the style of that Joplin girl, all loose clothes and wild hair in some manner of rebellion. What, exactly, was worth rebelling against on a luxury ocean liner Spy had no idea.

He sighed and gestured to the line forming beneath the banner that read ‘First Class’. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Gonna disguise yourself?” Sniper asked as he grabbed his luggage.

“I considered it,” Spy said. “But there is far too much risk in being splashed with water or having some drink sloshed onto me—”

“…or bein’ thrown into a pool…”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t ‘ear that. But yes, ‘aving my disguise kit deactivate would raise questions and eyebrows. So we’ll go with the usual explanation for my mask.”

“Scarred for life in a demolition accident,” Sniper said.

“Scarred for life in a demolition accident,” Spy repeated with a nod.

Their plan set, the two made their way down the dock to join the throng of people milling around in the First Class line. Spy gave another irritable glance at the Ivy League students around them. “I feel like Grace Kelly is going to pop out at any minute and give us fashion advice.”

“You, maybe,” Sniper said. He planted his hands on his hips. “I am the _epi-to-me_ of fashion.”

Spy glanced down at those horrendously hairy thighs, but before he could retort there was a sudden commotion from the other end of the deck. The twenty-somethings around them stirred with excitement, peering around each other and murmuring to get a glimpse of the action. Sniper and Spy, who stood head and shoulders above everyone else, had no trouble watching the limousine pull up to the end of the dock.

Wild whoops and applause went up as a young woman emerged from the limousine. Now there was the Grace Kelly of this voyage, Spy mused as he watched her. She was dressed impeccably, in a smart orange jacket and matching skirt, her expression hidden partially by her sunglasses. The slight swaying of the dock mattered little to her as she made for the ‘VIP’ line. Behind her, a porter struggled with the weight of her luggage.

Spy’s eyes narrowed. That confident, easy stride looked vaguely familiar. This VIP woman moved with a natural grace, almost as if she was dancing…

When the realization hit him he snapped his fingers. “Isabella Baker!”

“Eh?”

Spy couldn’t help his delight. Finally, someone with _class_! “Surely you’ve ‘eard of ‘er? Isabella Baker is one of the world’s most renowned dancers. She’s traveled the world over, toured with the most famous of companies, starred in a lovely little musical that debuted last year. I ‘ad the pleasure of seeing ‘er twice in-person, once in Paris and once in New York. She is _wonderful_, elegance personified, and what a presence she commands onstage and—” Spy finally looked up at Sniper’s baffled expression and sighed “—and you don’t give one fig about anything I’m saying, do you?”

“Nah,” Sniper said. He patted Spy on the shoulder in a consolatory fashion. “But it’s nice t’see ya get excited about something for once.”

Spy accepted Sniper’s encouragement as a consolation prize. Still, he couldn’t help glancing over in the direction Isabella Baker had gone. He snapped his cigarette case open and reached for his lighter. This mission had just gotten far more exciting.

A small podium had been set up before the gangplank leading up to the ship. A young woman with perfectly coiffed hair and an impeccable uniform greeted them as they stepped up. She took the tickets Sniper handed her, examined them, and then punched a hole through both.

“Lawrence Mundy and company,” the stewardess said with an overly-cheery smile. She handed the tickets back to Sniper. “I have you two booked for the honeymoon package.”

Spy choked on his cigarette.

Sniper blinked, trying and failing to ignore the doubled-over, hacking Spy beside him. “Erm…sorry?”

“The honeymoon package!” she replied without missing a beat. A bottle of bleach wouldn’t have wiped away that fixed customer service smile. She handed a pamphlet out to Sniper. “It’s the deluxe package, with access to all amenities and planned programs. Most newlyweds chose this one, hence why we call it the honeymoon package, but we’re happy to accommodate everyone here on the _Azure Princess_!”

Spy was slapping his knee and gasping for air, which made it much harder for Sniper to reply in a calm, rational manner. “Oh, erm…we’re not actually—y’know—with our wives or nothin’…maybe we can just…y’know…downgrade?”

The stewardess, still with the fixed smile, shook her head. “I’m afraid you’re already put a deposit down. You can still enjoy all the amenities of the package, even if your spouses aren’t present! We’re not going to kick you off the ship just because you don’t have your wife with you, silly!”

Spy was still gasping for air, but now it was laughter as much as it was trying to dislodge the cigarette from his throat. Sniper—assassin, professional, salt-of-the-earth—had just been called ‘silly’ in a patient tone and with a winning smile. The disconcerted look on Sniper’s face alone was worth the trip.

“Well—that’s—that’s awfully generous of ya,” Sniper said at last, after a poke in the ribs from the still-doubled-over Spy. He accepted the pamphlet and room key with a contrite “Thanks.”

And just like that, they were aboard the _Azure Princess_.

Spy managed to straighten himself as they boarded the main deck. It was a huge open space, perfectly suited for dancing and partying and live music. The bar was already open. Many of their fellow passengers were either lounging on deck chairs or eagerly looking over the rail at the crystal-clear water below. Spy nodded his head towards the nearest staircase, indicating that they should find their room. Sniper, still reeling from whatever the hell that was, nodded and followed after. 

“It’s a pity your kangaroo wife couldn’t make it,” Spy said as they started up the stairs. He took the key from Sniper. _Level 4, Cabin 15_ read the attached tag.

“Piss off, spook.” Sniper muttered. He flipped through the pamphlet, brow furrowing in increasing confusion. Yoga? What the hell was that? Was it something you ate? And if so, why did you only eat it at six-thirty in the morning? Why did this bloody boat have a pool? _Two _pools? They were surrounded on all sides by the ocean for Christ’s sake! “What kind’ve a cruise is this?!”

“Given their accommodating attitude, probably a Unitarian one. Come.”

They passed more blushing couples and rowdy guests on their way to the fourth floor, but neither said a word until the key had been inserted into Cabin 15.

A horror awaited them within.

Their huge room was painted a creamy white, with soft golden accents and complementary mahogany furniture. Gold-and-bronze curtains were pulled away from the three giant windows that overlooked the gleaming Atlantic Ocean. There was a small side-room, an even smaller bathroom, several leather armchairs and a comfy-looking loveseat.

And there was only one bed. A bed littered with rose petals and chocolates and a small note that read ‘Enjoy your stay!’.

This time it was Sniper who recovered first. He rolled his shoulders back and grinned sheepishly at the dumbstruck Spy. “Well…happy honeymoon, sweetheart.”

A stream of French curses and a yelp of pain echoed through all adjacent cabins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally writing a story that includes the East Coast as one of the settings so I'm legally obligated to make fun of my fellow New Englanders. 
> 
> Ciao for now!
> 
> Chaos


	4. High Sea Daisy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, c'mon, this isn't the longest I've ever gone between updating chapters. As always, thanks to Bel for her beta work and insight!

**Chapter Three: High Sea Daisy **

**  
**“Stop enjoying this.”

“Make me.”

Spy glared at Sniper, who had settled on the bed and was now helping himself to the complimentary chocolates. After the initial shock wore off, Sniper had accepted their lot with a sort of wry amusement. Spy, on the other hand, was not in the mood to be so charitable. If this was the Administrator’s idea of a joke, then when they returned to Teufort he was going to take that sense of humor and shove it right up her—

The low blare of a ship’s horn cut his mutinous thoughts short. The ship gave a sudden lurch; the _Azure Princess_ had pulled away from the dock and was making for the freedom of open water. Distantly, both men could hear cheers and whoops from the launch party on-deck.

Sniper caught Spy’s irritated look and shrugged. “We’re stuck here now.”

“It’s not too late to fling myself out the window and make for shore.”

“And leave me to do all the dirty work?” This Sniper said as he popped another piece of exquisite foreign chocolate into his mouth.

Spy snorted. “Yes, you endure all manner of hardships in pursuit of a paycheck.” He caught the mint Sniper tossed him in one hand. He tore it open and popped it into his mouth. The sharp, stinging mint didn’t exactly mix well with the lingering cigarette taste on his tongue, but nevertheless it gave him an excuse to shut up and think.

Solomon Esker was somewhere on this ship. He and Sniper could gripe all they wanted about their living conditions for a week—or he could, at any rate—but like it or not they had a task at hand. He couldn’t let emotion get in the way of a job. That made for sloppy spywork, and if there was one thing he was _not_, it was _sloppy_. He clacked the mint against his teeth. “We shouldn’t waste any time.”

“Agreed,” said Sniper, popping open the equally complimentary bottle of red wine. He poured a glass for himself and a glass for Spy. “Let’s get to work.”

Spy narrowed his eyes at the glass of wine. “I refuse to enjoy that without an entrée.”

“You wanna watch me down this whole bottle by myself?”

Admittedly, the idea had merit, if only for his own amusement. But it was for the good of the mission that Spy clucked his tongue. “What year is it?”’

Sniper checked the label. “1892.”

Well, he couldn’t rightly let an 1892 go to waste. Spy accepted the wine, but didn’t take a sip yet. “So. Solomon Esker.”

Sniper’s slight smirk didn’t go unnoticed by Spy. Sniper was enjoying this all the more because Spy was adamantly _not_ enjoying this. Every action and its equal opposite reaction, and all that.

“What do ya know about him?” Sniper asked as he settled back.

“Not much, unfortunately. He’s one of the most secretive thieves in the world.”

Sniper rubbed at his chin before shrugging. “What can we _guess_ about him, then?”

Spy allowed himself a small smile. Sometimes Sniper’s sense of humor was almost bearable. “Esker is very good at keeping a low profile. The only reason we even know ‘is name—or alias—is ‘is bad habit of gloating at the scene of the crime.”

“That callin’ card the Admin mentioned.”

“Precisely. ‘e likes to leave little paper swans with ‘is name on them behind. So ‘e ‘as a bit of an ego—” Spy shrugged “—but at this point ‘e’s earned it.”

Sniper sipped at his wine as he mulled this information over. “How long has he been active?”

“The past decade, although never consistently. ‘e only pops up on occasion, in big cities, and never in a recognizable pattern. Every target seems to be chosen on a whim—and Esker is always very effective at following through on ‘is whims.” Spy sipped his wine and tried not to savor the taste. It would have paired better with some cheese anyway. “I would not mark ‘im any older than thirty-five. ‘e’d ‘ave to be spry to keep it up this long.”

“We’re spry!”

“We’re also not breaking into museums and banks. That takes a younger man’s agility. So our fellow passengers are the best place to begin searching.”

“He could be among the crew,” said Sniper, his mental gears turning now. “Gives him easier access to personal belongings and what-not.”

“Recall that Esker is onboard with ‘is wife…supposedly.” Spy moved to the window, watching the landscape fade into the distance. Bright, sparkling blue surrounded them on all sides now. “I do not think we’ll see our mark among the crew. Esker steals items of _value_. And ‘e does not keep them for ‘imself. International police ‘ave been able to track down a number of Esker’s stolen artifacts once they’ve changed owners. Esker steals items of value and then pawns them off for exorbitant amounts of money.”

“He doesn’t leave a paper trail?”

“No. Whoever ‘e is, ‘is existing wealth is enough that any extra goes unnoticed. ‘e comes from money and ‘as the means to enjoy what that luxury offers.” Spy took another sip of wine. “So we will not find Esker among the crew.”

Sniper leaned back enough to rest his back against the headboard. He stretched his day-long legs onto in front of him. “What’s his MO anyway? He must be damn good to get in and out of a Mann Co. factory in one piece.”

“Well, I can’t exactly speak to ‘is MO, but Esker is very good at keeping ‘is hands clean. ‘e uses tranquilizers and knockout gases to detain security guards,” Spy said. “So far, ‘e’s never killed anyone on ‘is way in or out of a job….that the international undercover community is aware of, at any rate.”

Sniper tilted his akubra back on his head with his free hand. His eyebrows knitted together as he considered Spy’s assessment of Solomon Esker. “So he’s a young, agile, practical sort, who keeps to himself but don’t mind luxury when he sees it.”

Spy took another sip of wine, savored the taste, and nodded. “That is the basic assessment of the man we’re dealing with.”

“So he’s like ya,” Sniper said. He lowered his aviators to study Spy. “Minus the young bit.”

Spy turned enough to give Sniper a long look. He then swiveled back to the window and swallowed more wine. “I’m flattered.”

“What would you do if you were Esker?”

“Wait. Wait and watch—except!” Spy cocked his head to the side as a thought occurred to him. “We left out a very important factor out of our analysis.”

Sniper started as the same thought across his mind. He sat up and snapped his fingers. “Esker stole from Mann Co!”

“Esker stole from Mann Co,” Spy said with a nod. “And what is the first thing we highly-trained, incredibly professional, subtle and sophisticated mercenaries do when we get a new crate of goodies from Mann Co?”

“We play with ‘em!” Sniper said cheerily. “So Esker may try his luck with some poor fucker’s wallet after all.”

“I would aim higher than a wallet, but yes. There’s bound to be something _very _valuable ‘idden on this ship.” Spy drained the rest of his drink and set it down. With a heavy, resigned sigh he turned to face Sniper fully. Having drawn up an assessment of their target, their next objective was to begin scouting the terrain. How tragic. “I suppose this means we’ll be forced to mingle.”

Sniper grimaced. _Mingling_ was not exactly his forte. He wasn’t Spy, he couldn’t effortlessly flip on the charming switch and smarm his way through a crowd. It took a certain amount of energy and effort to _mingle_. Sniping a moving target from five miles away did not require him to mingle.

“—Lawrence, are you listening to me?”

Sniper looked up to see Spy staring at him. “Eh?”

“I _said_, all you ‘ave to do is stand there and look sufficiently impressive. I’ll do the talking for the both of us,” Spy said, speaking slowly as though addressing a particularly idiot dingo.

Spy had left himself wide open for a cutting retort, and was waiting expectantly for their next go-round, but for some reason Sniper suddenly wasn’t in the mood to banter. He sighed and downed the rest of his wine, setting it down on the nightstand beside the bed. He swung up off the bed and made for the door. “Right. I’m gonna stretch my legs some. Get a lay of the land, y’know?”

Spy’s gray-blue eyes narrowed sharply, in that way they did when he noticed something off. “Indeed. Lawrence—”

At the door Sniper paused and turned back. He raised an eyebrow.

Anyone else might have thought Spy completely disinterested, cool and calm and unruffled. But Sniper saw the way his fingers twitched and the slight bob of his Adam’s Apple as he swallowed. “Don’t fall overboard.”

Sniper managed a small smile. “If I die I’m comin’ back to haunt ya.”

A corner of Spy’s mouth twitched upwards, but he still had not moved by the time Sniper closed the door. For a long moment Sniper stood outside their room. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The _Azure Princess_ swayed underfoot, but she was so large and cut through the churning waters so easily that the movement didn’t bother him much at all.

The hallway was long and narrow and empty; adjacent to him was an open view of the ocean. Sniper moved to lean against the rail. The waters below churned white, but the endless expanse out from the ship glittered blue, with green and black seeping here and there. It was a beautiful, breathtaking view.

“Piss,” Sniper muttered to the ocean.

He didn’t mind the ocean. Oh, he was born for the desert and if he had his way he would die in the desert, but that didn’t mean the ocean was _terrible_. There was something equally intriguing about endless water as much as there was endless sand: the mystery of not knowing what was just beneath the surface, the reliance on skill to survive, the ability to read nature and learn its moods. The ocean and the desert were both wild and untamed.

Sniper reached into his vest and withdrew a photo; it was the same picture Spy had spotted in the van, the one of Lauren and Lizzie beaming at the camera. Sniper couldn’t help a small smile as he took in just how _tiny_ Lauren was, sitting in the already quite short Lizzie’s lap.

Then his smile faltered. Lauren would be almost two by the time he got to see her again, all the way into next Christmas break. She wouldn’t know much about her Uncle Lawrence. Until then he would be a concept in her life, some invisible foreign entity. He would show up at Christmas for two weeks with an armful of presents and a grouchy Frenchman at his side, and then disappear again. And so it would continue, for however many years he stayed in this business. If he continued this mercenary lifestyle, there was a very good chance Lauren would never really get to know him at all. The thought was small but persistent, like a sore throat: it wasn’t going to kill him, but that didn’t mean it didn’t _hurt_.

A part of him—and it was a part of him commanding more attention than he liked to admit—was toying with the idea of retirement. He had enough saved up; he could live comfortably while still supporting his parents and Lizzie. But retiring meant leaving the REDs. The notion of retiring from Reliable Excavation and Demolition and its band of bloody morons put the same burning sensation at the back of his throat as the notion of Lauren growing up without him. All in all, not a pleasant feeling. 

Several times now he’d considered asking for Spy’s opinion—and several times he had immediately backtracked from the thought. Spy was better than he had been, to be sure, but he still approached open emotion with the same fatalistic fascination one approached a five-car pileup. Once, telling Spy he was homesick would have left him wide-open for mockery. Now…now, Spy would grimace and spend ten minutes struggling to come up with something that wasn’t a cutting remark. Best not to burden him with it. Yet.

Sniper tilted his head back and sighed. He’d hoped the break from Teufort would help him clear his mind, help him refocus on what made him happy—

The polished wooden floor creaked behind him.

Instantly Sniper pivoted on his heel, hand flying to his waistline for a kukri that wasn’t there. His entire body tensed, readying to ram the sonuvabitch BLU Spy sneaking up behind him—and then he blinked.

Instead of that suit-wearing baguette-eating French-speaking bastard, a young woman with a flower in her hair was staring at him. She had one hand outstretched towards him, but withdrew it as soon as their eyes locked. “Um….hi. Can you help me?”

“Uh…depends on what yer askin’ after, Sheila,” Sniper said slowly. He looked over her carefully, wondering if this was Spy in disguise. Few others could sneak up on him like that.

She blushed, deep red, and Sniper had to wonder what it was about the term ‘Sheila’ that turned American girls into giggling messes. She wound a lock of blonde hair around her finger before speaking again: “I was looking for the open bar, but I got lost.”

“Oh.” Sniper relaxed somewhat. “Sorry, Sheila. Your guess is as good as mine. We’re on a big boat.”

“Ship.”

“Right.”

They stared at each other, flower child and bushman assassin, before she tentatively held out a hand. “I’m Daisy Carmichael.”

“Lawrence Mundy.” He took her proffered hand and shook it. She had a soft grip, gentle and ladylike. Sniper did his best not to accidentally break her hand before quickly pulling back. 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Daisy said. “I just haven’t seen anyone else—I think they’re all downstairs already—and I lost my friend—and I’ve walked this same corridor _twice_ now—”

Sniper held up his hands before she could really get going. “Hey, hey, hey, s’all right. We’ve only been aboard for twenty minutes. Gotta save the hysteria for _after_ we’re stranded on a deserted island, eh?”

Daisy managed a wobbly smile and nodded. “Right. Sorry.”

Sniper leaned over and gave her shoulder a tentative pat. “I was gonna take a look around anyway. Let’s explore together.” If he was meant to mingle, he supposed, it would be easier to start with some one-on-one polite conversation.

“What if we get lost?” Daisy said, frowning a little at the prospect.

“I’m an expert tracker, Sheila.” Sniper said, tilting his hat up a little onto his head. He gave her his best fanged grin. “Don’t you fret. If I can track a tree-kangaroo in monsoon season, I can find us an open bar on a cruise ship.”

They started off together, Daisy studying him as they walked. “So…you’re Australian?”

Sniper pretended not to hear the incredulity in her voice, focusing instead of being polite. “Born and raised there, Miss Carmichael.”

The formal address seemed to please her, for she stood a little straighter. “Oh! I’m from Vermont.”

Sniper neither knew nor cared where Vermont was, but he managed a nod all the same. “What brings you on this cruise?”

“A friend of mine had an extra ticket,” said Daisy. She hooked her thumbs into the pockets of her bellbottoms and gave Sniper another appraising look. And perhaps she was sorry for doubting his Down Under Authenticity, for she added: “I like your hat.”

“Thanks.” Sniper paused before adding: “I like your flower.”

Flower child and bushman assassin walked the length of the fourth level together, finding little of interest besides more rooms and a broom closet barely big enough to hide a body. Daisy had laughed when Sniper mentioned that off-hand, giving him a delighted, incredulous look. “Do you plan on murdering many people on this cruise, Mister Mundy?”

“My pal, maybe,” Sniper said, opening the closet and frowning at the cleaning supplies inside. “And whatever drunken fools think they can pick a fight with an undersized Aussie.” 

“Pride before the fall, as they say.” Daisy nodded. Then she paused, having fully absorbed Sniper’s sentence. “You came with a friend too?”

“Hmm-mm. French fella. Skinny. Huge prick.”

“He must be very proud.”

Sniper barked a laugh as he shut the closet door. “C’mon, kid, we got more to explore.”

Daisy was a welcome distraction from the thoughts tumbling at the back of his mind, even if a blind and deaf rat had better sense of direction than the young woman. She chattered on and on about this and that, life in New England and how she had moved to New York City to pursue a career in theater, how excited she was to see something of the world and expand her artistic horizons. All Sniper had to do was nod, make an occasional ‘hm’ noise, and tug her in the right direction. Twice she nearly fell down a flight of stairs. 

Sniper had just steered her away from a restroom when the faint edge of laughter and music caught his ear. He tilted his head to the side. “I think we’re close.”

Daisy brushed a lock of blonde hair out of her eyes and copied Sniper’s head tilt. “Think so?”

“Yeah. C’mon, kid, this way.”

She followed obediently after, and Sniper had to muse at how nice it was to have someone listen the first time. He slowed his pace to allow Daisy to catch up. She beamed up at him, looking more daffodil than daisy. “Thanks for sticking with me, Mister Mundy.”

“No problem, Sheila,” Sniper said. He returned her smile, albeit smaller. “You would’ve found your way eventually. Only so many places you can get turned around on a ship. ‘sides, I could go for a drink myself. It’s gonna be a long week.”

“I know what you mean,” Daisy sighed.

Together they found the spiral staircase that led back onto the crowded main deck. Although the launch party had ended and the welcome ceremony wasn’t until the evening, the main deck was already crowded. People squished together like sardines in a tin can, but no one seemed to mind the proximity. Everyone was laughing and bouncing in time to jaunty music, drinks in hand. Sniper stared at the crowd in dismay. Mingling wouldn’t require dancing, would it? Would it?

Fortunately, Daisy looked as unnerved by the commotion as he did. She glanced up at him in mute appeal. Sniper took her by the shoulder and steered his way into the crowd. He was, for once, considerably bulkier than those around him, and as such was able to shoulder his way through to a spot by a rail, away from the worst of the noise.

“We should be all right here,” Sniper said, feeling as though he’d just traded one active warzone for another.

Daisy stood on tip-toe, craning her neck to spot the bar. “I’ll brave the bar. What would you like?”

“Whatever’s cheapest,” Sniper pulled out his wallet and handed her a fistful of dollars. “Or whatever will distract me from this racket.”

“Heard,” Daisy said. She took his money and vanished into the crowd. Sniper tried to keep track of her bouncing blonde hair, but soon enough it was lost in a sea of similar styles. Somewhere across the deck a disc jockey blared Cher’s latest, sending the passengers into a renewed frenzy. Some, already drunk, had climbed on top of deck tables to shimmy along to the music. Others teetered on the rails overlooking the water, shouting about whatever sea creature they thought they could spot.

It was like being trapped on a ship with a thousand Scouts.

Sniper sighed, pulled Lizzie’s picture from his shirt again, and tried to find a modicum of solace inside it. Lauren had her mother’s smile, but those were most definitely Mundy ears…

“Is that your wife?”

Sniper jumped, nearly dropping the picture. He fumbled, tightening his grip on the photo, before straightening to frown at Daisy. That was twice now she had gotten the jump on him. Daisy grinned apologetically and extended out a cool beer as an apology. When Sniper accepted she nodded towards the picture once more.

“Sister, actually,” he finally replied. “That’s my niece on her lap.”

“Oh! She’s very cute.” Daisy looked the photo over, a small smile on her face. Then she looked up, meeting Sniper’s eyes. Her look was thoughtful, appraising, as though she had just stumbled across a rare and interesting-looking bug.

“Thanks. She got her looks from her mum.” Even as he answered, Sniper couldn’t shake the feeling he’d just been evaluated on something very important. Whatever it was, he must have passed the test, for Daisy was still smiling up at him.

“And thank God for that, otherwise the poor thing would ‘ave to deal with looking like a horse on top of being Australian.”

Spy’s droll tone made Sniper jump again. He twisted around to see Spy glaring at him. “Phil!”

“Lawrence.” Spy stepped up to join them, hard eyes shifting from Sniper to Daisy. “It took you long enough to show up.”

“When did you get here?!” Sniper demanded. He planted his free hand on his hip.

“I’ve been ‘ere for the past ten minutes.” Spy flicked his wrist towards the noisy crowd, the same gesture one used to ward off an irritant fly. “Trust a bushman to get turned around on a cruise ship.”

“T’weren’t my fault, I was helping out—”

“Me! Hi, I’m Daisy!” An elbow dug sharply into his ribs. Daisy pushed herself in front of Sniper, extending a hand out to Spy. “You must be the huge prick!”

“The one and only,” Spy replied without missing a beat. He accepted Daisy’s hand with the grace only a Frenchman could muster. He pressed a light kiss to the back of her hand, making her giggle. But his steely-blue eyes were flat as he straightened again. “Philippe Vidal, at your service. And ‘ow did you make the acquaintance of my oversized koala companion?”

“Lawrence helped me find my way here. It’s my fault he’s late,” Daisy said. She looked between Spy and Sniper, giving the latter that appraising look once more. “I’m in your debt, really. I would have wandered the ship all afternoon if you hadn’t offered to come along.”

“We were headin’ in the same direction.” Sniper shrugged. “T’weren’t no trouble.”

“Still, it was a kindness. I have to pay you back somehow—oh! I know! My friend and I have a VIP table for the welcoming dinner tonight. I’d love for you to join us! And you as well, Philippe.” Daisy rolled to the tips of her feet in clear excitement.

“Welcomin’ dinner?” Sniper repeated. His grip on his beer bottle tightened. “Ain’t this the welcomin’ party?”

“No!” She laughed. “This is the launch party!”

“How many damn parties are gonna be on this ship?” Sniper demanded, to the amusement of both Spy and Daisy.

“A week’s worth, I’d say,” Daisy said. “But if you’ll allow me, I can get you into the _best_ parties.”

“We’d be delighted,” Spy said, before Sniper could raise a protest. A light, amused smile played around his lips, but his eyes remained hard as he looked Daisy over. “Where and when tonight, Mademoiselle?”

“Seven sharp, second floor ballroom. I’ll have my friend make all the arrangements, and we’ll meet you there!” She bounced again, but this time her eyes went over Spy’s shoulder. “Oh, speaking of—I spot her now. I’ll leave you two to it, then! Bye!”

The lithe little blonde vanished, making a beeline for someone in the partying crowd. 

Sniper waved a farewell. Spy narrowed his eyes at Daisy’s retreating back. “I wish you would refrain from adopting every blond twenty-something that gives you puppy eyes or buys you a beer.”

“Eugh.” Sniper wrinkled his nose as he lowered his arm back to his side. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Then stop doing it.” Spy took the beer from Sniper’s hand and helped himself to a sip. “Hm. Better than the swill they serve in Teufort.” He turned towards the rail, leaning against it, and Sniper followed suit.

“All right,” Sniper said as he folded his hands together. “Why don’t you like her?”

“I never said that.”

“You _thought_ it.”

A corner of Spy’s mouth twitched upwards as he took another sip. “She seems bubbly enough. But also very eager to make friends with near-strangers. And her access to a VIP table is very…interesting. But I think we should keep her close, in any case.” 

“Agreed.” With that, Sniper snatched the beer bottle back and took several long gulps.

Spy stared at him. “What are you doing?”

With a _pop!_, the bottle came away from Sniper’s lips. He rolled his shoulders back. “Mingling.”

“Odd.” Spy laughed. “I didn’t realize Australian mingling involving so much day-drinking.”

Daisy’s sudden appearance had been a welcome break from his worries, and with a new goal in mind Sniper felt more like himself. He shot Spy a grin, ready to bat the banter ball Spy had tossed his way. “We usually throw in fistfights too.”

“Now that, I can believe.”


	5. The Ordeal of Being Known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I TOLD you this update wouldn't take five months. As always, thanks to Bel. :3c

**Chapter Four: The Ordeal of Being Known **

“Are you quite finished?”

Even with a heavy mahogany door between them, Sniper could hear the irritation in Spy’s tone. He elected—not for the first time in his life—to completely ignore the Frenchman. Instead he leaned forward to study himself in the mirror.

Fog rose in lazy swirls around him, bathing the small bathroom in a delicious-smelling heat. The shower had come with its own complimentary set of shampoos and body washes. Sniper had taken his own sweet time sniffing each, before resigning himself to smelling like strawberries and vanilla. Now he leaned against the small counter to better inspect himself. He’d shaved away the five-o’-clock shadow, combed his hair and trimmed his sideburns. Not bad, he thought. Taken all together, he almost cut a good-looking figure.

It had been ages since he’d done a proper undercover mission. Before Reliable Excavation and Demolition, employers usually contacted him remotely—most of his jobs took him to rooftops and darkened windows, not the center of black-tie affairs. And considering the outcome of the last time he and Spy had invited themselves to a party…

He wasn’t nervous. He was _not_ nervous. He just wanted to put his best foot forward and get this night over with—

The lock clicked. Sniper pivoted, clutching at the towel around his waist. “OI! That door was LOCKED!”

“And you left a Spy on the other side of said locked door. So who’s really at fault ‘ere, hm?”

Sniper scowled as Spy pushed the door open. Spy scowled right back. “You’ve been preening over yourself in ‘ere for the last hour, and let me tell now it ‘as not done you a damn bit of good—”

He stopped and sniffed the air.

“Is that strawberry?”

“Piss off!” Sniper swung at him even as his ears burned red.

Spy ducked the wide blow, grabbed Sniper by the arm and the opposite shoulder, and shoved him out the door. He slammed it shut as Sniper spun back around. Sniper straightened and slammed his fist against the door. “PHIL!”

“You’ve ‘ad your time to preen, Lawrence,” Spy replied. There was the unmistakable sound of a mask peeling away from skin. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I too want to smell like a yummy fruity dessert.”

“Don’t make fun,” Sniper muttered to the door.

“My dear bushman, ‘ow else will I get through the day?”

With that, the water screeched on. Sniper muttered an oath under his breath before turning towards the bed—and then he stopped short. His suitcase was open on it; Spy had evidently spent the better part of his past hour rifling through Sniper’s belongings. And apparently he’d found something of interest, for a crisp white shirt, a pair of black slacks, and thin red tie had been laid out on the bed—and Sniper was _damn _sure he hadn’t packed a tie. 

Fury rose, sharp and hot through his throat, and Sniper swung back towards the door. This time, it was all he could do not to punch the mahogany. He curled his hands into tight, furious fists. “PHIL!”

“What?” Spy snapped over the rush of water. 

“Touch my stuff again and I’m gonna snap each one of your sticky fingers!”

“Then next time, you should take less time in the shower,” Spy retorted. “I was getting _bored_.”

“That’s no excuse! An’ what’s this damn monkey suit?!”

“That’s _your _damn monkey suit, I’ll ‘ave you know.”

“I didn’t pack that!”

“Of course you didn’t. I took the liberty of ensuring it was packed for you, to avoid the embarrassment of ‘aving you show up to some formal event dressed looking like you just walked up from the engine room to tell everyone the ship is sinking.”

“I don’t need a damn babysitter!”

“No, but a fashion consultant would be nice.” With that, the water screeched off again. Apparently Spy wasn’t one much for dwelling under the hot water. “It would save me the trouble, at any rate.”

“I don’t need you frettin’ over me, spook.”

“It is not _fretting_ so much as saving myself from the inevitable public embarrassment of being associated with _you_.”

This time Sniper gave the door a solid punch. “Piss off! Remember ya agreed to come along on this mission, spook! I ain’t gonna deal with yer sour grapes for a week!”

The bathroom door opened. Spy reappeared, smoothing his mask back into place with one hand. The other, his left, had a hand to the towel around his waist. Sniper caught the expert flick of his left forearm, hiding the underside from view as Spy adjusted his grip on the towel. Spy just scowled at him. “Sour grapes indeed. You’re one to talk.” He shoved past Sniper, taking extra special care to knock their shoulders together as he did so.

Sniper staggered. He whipped around as Spy grabbed his own clean clothes. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Meaning—,” Spy said as he made for the bathroom again, “if you ‘ad any more mood swings I might think you were in the throes of menopause.” He stopped short as Sniper planted himself in the bathroom doorway, barring the way with arms outstretched. “Out of my way.”

“Not ‘til you tell me what the fuck yer on about! Mood swings?! I don’t have bloody mood swings—!”

“Oh, please. When you’re not busy rubbing this entire mission and its ridiculousness in my face, you’re off in some corner sulking and avoiding people.” _Avoiding me_, Spy might have added, for all the indignation he let show.

Inwardly Sniper cursed. Sometimes it felt like this friendship had only served to make his life more complicated. His hand slipped away from the bathroom doorframe. “I just…I have a lot on my mind, all right? I need some time to think about stuff.”

“Stuff,” Spy repeated, dubious.

“Yeah,” Sniper said, trying and failing not to feel like he was slamming some door in Spy’s face. “Stuff.”

“Very well. I will do my utmost not to interfere with your intense internal battle over…stuff.” Spy slipped past him into the bathroom, not even sparing Sniper a glance as he made to close the door. “If you don’t want to wear the items I picked out, fine. I was merely trying to do you a favor.”

“Favors don’t mean playin’ dress-up with my clothes, Phil. I can manage that bit just fine.”

“Try not to be so useless at it next time, then,” Spy snapped. The entire cabin rattled as he slammed the door shut.

Sniper stared at the door. He couldn’t shake the feeling—the persistent, niggling little feeling—that Spy had been trying to help. And what’s more, that Spy’s feelings had been bruised by his curt dismissal. Sniper cocked his head to the side, trying and failing to suss out what the hell just had happened. Spy had been the one picking through things that didn’t belong to him, so why did _he_ feel like the guilty party here?

A heavy, shoulder-sinking sigh left him. Some days he missed when things were simple.

**…**

On the other side of the door Spy gnashed his teeth. Stuff, he thought darkly. Well, that was the last time he tried to help. What had he been thinking, anyway? This wasn’t some remote therapy session; this was a mission. A highly sensitive mission that had been handed to him by the Administrator herself. He had neither time nor energy to devote to any undersized dingo’s brooding.

Spy swung around to glare at the masked man in the mirror. Sometimes, he wished for nothing more than the good old days, days of arguing and petty jabs and thrown punches. Kicking Sniper in the balls was easier than talking to the man.

Irritated now, Spy dressed in rapid movements. He would have dressed quickly in any case—the concept of nudity didn’t bother him, per say, but his own nakedness always left him feeling uniquely vulnerable. There were parts of himself he didn’t like lingering on, even in private.

_It’s the clothes that make the man, chico_, his mentor had said that to him once, dark green eyes looking over a young, uncertain Spy with approval. _The right suit jacket provides more protection than any armor. Just make sure it fits, eh?_

Spy shook his head to clear the memory. Well—he had had the right of it, in the end. Whatever he lacked, he could easily mask with the right tie and a pair of Italian leather oxfords. For this evening, however, Spy elected for a crisp, long-sleeved white shirt, a pair of striped red trousers, and a matching vest. Protected, guarded, but less imposing than a full suit. It was something that straddled the line between _I’m here to have a good drink_ and _don’t talk to me_.

Satisfied with himself, Spy squared his shoulders and readied a cutting remark. “You see, bushman,” he said as he opened the door, “this is ‘ow men of a civilized era dress—”

Oh.

The black slacks fit Sniper well, straightening out and somehow lengthening those already day-long legs. The shoes—black, like his own—were nowhere near as comfortable as Sniper’s boots, but they were already doing wonders for the way he carried himself. The white shirt fit perfectly, squaring over Sniper’s shoulders to make him look just that much broader.

Gone was the akubra hat—and thank God for that—leaving Sniper’s hair combed in a neat part to the left. Had his hair always curled up in that natural flip at the end? Too bad he hadn’t thought to pack hair gel, Spy thought. That little duck’s tail flip would distract him all night. 

Sniper had even tucked the aviators away. His bright blue eyes were wary, apprehensive even as he draped the red tie around his neck. 

“Decided to fess up an’ just admit it,” Sniper said. “Yer taste is better than mine.”

“I’ll savor the sweet taste of victory with some wine.” Spy stepped up to him, looked him up and down with a critical eye. “You look…presentable.”

“And ya look…vested.”

Spy laughed as he took the ends of the tie and began to loop them together. “A ‘alf-Windsor will do for tonight, I think.”

“Yeah. Jus’ try not to cut off all the air to my brain, huh?” Sniper held still as Spy expertly knotted the tie. When he was done Sniper took a deep breath. Not too loose, not too tight. He might make it through the evening after all. “Remember the last time ya managed to get me into a tie?”

“How could I forget? Fireworks, champagne, a member of the Mafia as our charming host, stolen Respawn technology, Blake Porter piss-drunk and sobbing into your shoulder, and you grumbling about being collared like a dog.” Spy ticked off fingers as he spoke. “Let’s make sure this party goes smoother, hm?”

“Unless ya also packed Porter into a suitcase, I think we stand a chance.”

It was as close to an “I’m sorry” that either got, and that suited them both just fine.

**…**

The huge windows of the second-level ballroom offered an astonishing view of the Atlantic Ocean. It surrounded them on all sides as an inky, star-speckled darkness. Waves lapped around the Azure Princess, but the sound was masked by a band playing gentle music in the corner. Fairy lights hung from the ceiling, giving the hardwood floors and linen tablecloths a warm glow. Guests spoke in low murmurs over flutes of champagne and hors d'oeuvres.

Sniper tugged at his collar. His eyes followed a young woman as she walked by, looking sleek in one of those little black numbers. Her heels, he noted with some disconcertment, were longer than a mercenary’s knife. 

The high-falutin daddy’s-money gaudiness of it all was enough to turn his stomach. “Kill me.” 

“Not until I’ve ‘elped myself to some profiteroles,” Spy said. He had done a quick scan of the room, determined no immediate threats, and then turned his attention to the servers walking through the crowd.

“There’s profiteroles?”

“Lawrence! Philippe!”

The call came from across the ballroom, making a few heads turn in their general direction. Daisy was waving at them from a table in the back corner of the room. Sniper returned the wave, while Spy only just withheld a sigh. Together they made their way across the crowd to Daisy’s table.

She grinned as they both took a seat. “I’m glad you could make it. You two look nice!”

Instead of flowing curls and a flower pinning, Daisy’s blonde hair had been done up in a loose beehive. She’d also slipped into one of those little black dresses. Diamonds glittered in her ears and across her chest, lending her an air of breezy sophistication—but as Sniper sat he caught a glimpse of discarded heels under the table.

Mollified, he helped himself to a glass of champagne. “You look like a right beauty.”

“Oh!” Daisy blushed scarlet. “I can’t take any credit, I had help getting ready. Really—” she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper “—I’m pretty terrible at this kind of social gathering…thing.”

“Join the club,” Sniper whispered back, happy to have found a kindred spirit.

Spy bit back any number of creatively cruel remarks. He reached for the basket of bread rolls placed in the center of the table. “And where is your friend? I’d loathe for the festivities to start without them…”

“Here she comes now!”

The soft murmurs in the crowd increased, as though someone had dumped a hive of bees into their midst. Spy twisted in his seat in time to see the crowd part for another party-goer making her way towards their table.

She dressed in a shear of muted orange and blue, with a slip that revealed a lean, muscular thigh. Her high heels put her head and shoulders above the crowd—not that she needed it, given her already impressive height. Her dark hair had been pulled away from a strong, handsome face. Gold jewelry sparkled under the fairy lights, but it was the way she moved that truly gave her an air of pure grace. Each step was effortless, and even though she moved with the lightest of steps, there was a purpose in her stride. Any onlooker would be forgiven for thinking she could bend the very air around her to her will.

Isabella Baker had eyes the color of whiskey, and they narrowed as she neared the table. “Daisy. Our guests for the evening?” Her cool gaze slid over Sniper and Spy in turn. “Hello.” It was a curt greeting, almost blunt, in sharp contrast to her outward elegance.

Sniper raised his champagne glass in greeting. “Heya.”

“Mademoiselle. Allow me.” In a flash Spy was out of his seat, pulling back the spare chair for Baker to sit. She gave him a disinterested once-over before sinking into the chair.

Sniper supposed it was just courtesy, manners and social graces and all those things Spy told him he lacked. Pulling out a chair for a lady was a right proper thing to do. Even so he stared at Spy in disbelief as he sat down again. Anyone else would have missed the way his mouth turned up at the corners, and the self-conscious way he smoothed his mask over. This was the closest Sniper had ever seen Spy to ecstatic. Hell, this wasn’t just enthusiasm—this was _euphoria_. 

“See?” Daisy was saying, “I told you he was French. And had _manners_.”

“Quite.” Baker looked between the Frenchman and the Australian sitting across from her. She arched her eyebrows. “When Daisy told me about you two, I assumed you were some sort of punchline.”

“We get that all the time,” Sniper said with an amicable wave of his hand.

Spy shot him a look, but Baker’s eyes warmed ever-so-slightly. She leaned forward a little. “I told Day I was going to strangle her if you two turned out to be some crazed fans of mine, crashing my dinner for the sake of an autograph.”

“If it’s any consolation, I got no idea who the hell yer supposed to be.”

Burying his face in his hands would have been a social faux pas, so Spy settled for pressing one finger to his temple. Maybe—if he stared hard enough—Sniper’s head would explode.

Baker, on the other hand, seemed intrigued by Sniper’s ignorance. “Do you attend much theater, sir?”

“Not since my primary school’s production of _A Christmas Carol_. I was eight,” Sniper replied cheerily.

Spy looked ready to either vanish on the spot or stab Sniper in the neck with the salad fork. He was digging into his pocket for a coin to flip when Baker laughed.

“Finally! A fellow passenger of culture!”

Daisy smirked as she smeared too much butter onto a bread roll. Sniper blinked in confusion. And Spy—well, it was a good thing the salad fork was slightly out of reach.

Sniper cleared his throat. “Come again?”

“I don’t know a damn thing about theater either,” Baker said. She shrugged, as though the man sitting to her left wasn’t quietly losing his mind. “I don’t watch any production I’m not involved in somehow.”

“So…yer a performer?”

“One of the best. A dancer by passion, although lately everyone and their agent is encouraging me to take on more acting roles.”

Daisy rolled her eyes. “As you can see, Bella’s charm and grace is matched only by her humility.”

“I don’t need humility, Day,” Baker replied. She reached into her clutch purse and withdrew a cigarette case. “That would only hold me back.”

With a small _fwick_, the flame on Spy’s lighter spurted to life. He offered it out to Baker. After a moment of hesitation, she accepted, leaning forward just enough to let the tip of the cigarette catch over the flickering flame. Steely blue eyes met whiskey brown eyes. For a split second they held each other’s gaze.

Then Baker pulled back. She took a deep drag off her cigarette, held it, and exhaled slowly through her nose. “Merci beaucoup. I didn’t catch your name, Mister…?”

“Philippe Vidal.” Spy inclined his head as he snapped his lighter shut. “And my charmingly boorish companion is Lawrence Mundy. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise. Isabella Baker.” The latter was added for the benefit of Sniper, who tapped two fingers to his forehead in greeting.

“And I’m Daisy Carmichael!” Daisy said as she helped herself to another bread roll. “So now we all know each other. When do they serve the entrees?”

Baker paid Daisy’s grumblings no mind—for Spy’s cigarette case, produced from his vest’s inner pocket, was far more interesting. “Ah. A fellow tobacco connoisseur.”

“You have exceptional taste.” He’d caught a glimpse of her brand of choice before she’d snapped her cigarette case shut.

“I have _expensive_ taste,” Baker replied. “Although Daisy insists it’s all the same.”

“That’s because it is,” Daisy retorted. She picked up her champagne glass and took a loud sip. “When you’re taking a smoke between set changes, you can’t afford to be picky.”

“Are you in theater as well?” Spy asked. He looked her up and down. Nothing about her seemed particularly familiar, although the way she was holding her champagne glass all wrong was very reminiscent of one RED Sniper...who was currently taking a cue from Daisy, and piling his plate high with bread rolls.

“Backstage. Costuming, to be precise,” Daisy said. “Bella and I met in a production of _Oliver_ a few years back. It’s still my favorite production.” She gave Bella a fond sidelong look.

Baker returned the look, a small smile tugging at her lips. Then she sniffed, and the fondness was replaced by a genteel exasperation. “Yes, well, you weren’t getting your head bashed in nightly by Sikes.”

“You always got the most applause come bows, though.”

“Ugh, I hated bows. All that white fabric under those stage lights….you made me look like a corpse.”

“You didn’t need my help with that.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Only that you and a corpse both weight about a hundred pounds soaking wet.”

Sniper and Spy blinked. There was something very familiar about those barbed-yet-affectionate jabs, something familiar in the verbal fencing, the parry and riposte. Yes, there was something terribly familiar in the way Daisy scowled as Baker rolled her eyes.

“And what of you two?” she asked. She flicked a hand in Spy’s direction. “Surely there’s a story behind that mask.”

“Scarred for life in a demolition accident,” Spy said. “Lawrence and I work for a demolition company, located in New Mexico. It’s well-paying work, but ‘ardly for the frail.”

“How do two demolition men working in New Mexico get luxury cruise tickets for the East Coast?”

“Lottery,” Sniper said.

“Honeymoon,” Spy said.

Underneath the table Spy slammed his foot against Sniper’s leg. Sniper rubbed at the back of his neck and muttered something that sounded like ‘honeymoon lottery’.

“Unfortunately, neither of our wives could make it,” Spy quickly added. “But we weren’t about to let the tickets go to waste.”

Over the rapidly-dwindling basket of bread, Daisy gave Sniper the same appraising look as before. Then she nodded. “We know how that goes, don’t we, Bella? Our, hm, paramours, as you say—they couldn’t make it either. Theater obligations, and all.”

“Co-workers, lovers, it’s all the same thing.”

Spy cocked an eyebrow at the dismissive wrist Baker flicked as she spoke. When Daisy blushed, the second eyebrow jumped up to join the first. He glanced in Sniper’s direction, but the Aussie had just accepted the statement with a nod of agreement. _Typical_. 

“GOOD EVENING, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”

All four occupants of the table jumped. Daisy choked on the mouthful of bread, doubling over and slamming her fist into her chest. Sniper leaned over and thumped her on the back—not that it did any good, but it was the thought that counted. 

Baker and Spy, meanwhile, twisted to glare at their interrupter.

He was tall, muscular, and for a half a terrified heartbeat Spy thought he’d been dealing with another Australian. But no—that was a full beard he sported, not a mustache. And when he apologized for the interruption, his accent was middle-American apple pie. His outward appearance was as wholesome as his accent: starch white shirt and pants, decorated with gold epaulets. A captain’s cap sat jauntily on top of his dark head of hair, genial as a cherry on a cupcake.

The nametag pinned to his shirt read ‘David Brody – Captain’.

“Welcome aboard!” he said, oblivious to the daggers being driven into him. “My name is Captain Dave, and I’m here to ensure all goes well on this voyage! If you need anything, don’t hesitate to let me or another associate know! Our mission is to make sure you all have a wonderful time!”

With the routine pleasantries out of the way, he made a point of looking to Baker. “And for our VIP guests, the sky’s the limit! Anything you want or need, Miss Baker, you have a direct line to me.”

“Thanks,” Baker said, in a tone that suggested her first order would be to have him take a flying leap off the bow. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He tapped two fingers to his forehead, pivoted on shiny black shoes, and moved on to bother other guests. In the corner, the band played a little fanfare tune to match the captain’s step.

“Oh,” Daisy gasped as she straightened up. “Oh, I think I hate him.”

Baker continued to stare after Captain Dave with eyes narrowed. Spy leaned towards her to mutter: “I would suggest your first order be to shave that uncouth beard.” He allowed himself a small smile as Baker twisted back to look at him.

“Agreed,” she said after a moment. “If he wants to be a professional, he should look like a professional.”

Spy glanced over at Sniper, who was giving his tie a tug as Daisy chatted in his ear. “Looking professional is ninety-percent of the work.”

The rest of the evening passed in mild conversation and delicious entrees. Daisy was the driver of most of the conversation: she wanted to know everything about Australia and France, the sights there, the foods, the animals. When Sniper told the story of nearly being eaten by a crocodile, she gasped in all the right places, and nearly broke into applause at the end.

Baker, for her part, ate and drank quietly. She said little, but her eyes followed the flow of conversation between her companion and the two strangers across the table. When she did speak up, it was usually with some cutting remark.

The last of the profiteroles had been picked over by the time Daisy slumped over onto Baker’s shoulder. Baker sighed and set down her fork. “We should retire for the evening. Someone has helped herself to too much wine.”

“Did not,” Daisy mumbled. She swatted feebly at Baker as she stood, pulling Daisy up with her. “Whrof. Is the ship sinking?”

“No. You’re just piss-drunk.” Baker slipped a hand around Daisy’s waist, allowing her to lean fully onto her. Baker glanced down at her, brow furrowed, before turning to Sniper and Spy. “Lawrence—Philippe. Let’s have dinner again sometime. As far as punchlines go, you’re not the worst I’ve ever heard.”

Spy inclined his head. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Take care of that one, Sheila,” Sniper said, nodding towards the dozing Daisy.

A corner of Baker’s mouth twitched upwards, and with a small nod she left the table. Her exit was largely undisturbed; the ballroom had mostly emptied by this point, leaving only a few stragglers murmuring at tables and the band packing up their instruments. 

“Kid left her shoes,” Sniper noted. He pulled the discarded heels closer with his own foot.

“They won’t fit you,” Spy said absentmindedly. He planted his chin in his hand, watching Baker guide the swaying Daisy towards the door.

“Nah. Might be your size, though.” Sniper followed Spy’s gaze. “Still suspicious?”

“No. I’ve figured them out entirely.”

“From one dinner? C’mon, even yer not that good.”

“Oh yes I am. And those two women, while not our objects of true interest, are fascinating indeed.”

“They seem like a decent enough pair.” Sniper pulled out his own cigarette pack, one more battered than either Spy or Baker’s. “Wonder why their gents couldn’t come along?”

“For the same reason our wives couldn’t. They simply don’t exist.” Spy nodded towards the exiting Daisy and Baker. Daisy was leaning her full weight onto the taller Baker, one arm wrapped around her frame and her head on her shoulder. Baker smiled down at her before hauling her out of the ballroom. “Those two women are disinclined to spend their energy on men.”

“What do you—_oh_. Ooooh.” Sniper’s eyes flicked to their backs and back again. For a moment he was thoughtful. And then he shrugged and popped a cigarette into his mouth. “Well, as long as they got each other, huh?”

“I’m sure many of our fellow passengers are saying the same thing about us,” Spy said. Without prompting, he popped open his lighter and held it out to Sniper.

“You could do a lot worse than me, spook,” Sniper said, sitting back with a lit cigarette.

Spy lit his own cigarette, leaned back into the seat, and stared at the ceiling. “I could also do much better, bushman.”

**…**

By nightfall, the _Azure Princess_ had fallen quiet. Not entirely silent: workers made their way up and down the floors on their shifts, and the hum of the engine echoed from deep within the ship’s belly. But quiet enough that Sniper and Spy could slip through the corridors unperturbed. The cloaked Spy moved first, peering around corners and through doorways, and if the coast was clear he would tug Sniper after him.

It had been Sniper’s idea to check the captain’s log of passengers. How else, he pointed out, were they going to narrow down all the married couples on this ship to one thief and his wife?

Spy had to admit the idea had merit. Not out loud, of course.

The captain’s cabin was on the fifth level, not far from the helm itself. Security here was tighter, but that meant little and less to an accomplished Spy and a Sniper who’d grown up around sophisticated Australian technology.

With a soft _bzzt!_, the cabin door slid open. Spy pocketed his sapper before nodding to Sniper, who slipped through the threshold and into the darkened office.

Sniper didn’t know much about interior design, but he thought this particular office looked nice enough. Big wooden desk, huge window behind it that overlooked the water, all the bells and whistles necessary for keeping everyone on this ship alive. The left wall was dominated by security cameras. He wandered over to watch black-and-white images of each deck flicker.

“Hard to miss a trick with this set-up.”

Spy decloaked beside Sniper. He gave the security footage a once-over before turning to study the rest of the room. Everything was neatly organized, but oddly…sparse. “It all seems rather…impersonal, does it not?”

Even the most bloodied of mercenaries was entitled to some individuality. Scout’s room was plastered in baseball memorabilia; dove feathers littered the floor of Medic’s laboratory. Sniper’s van was a testament to his personality. Even Spy, withdrawn and secretive as he was, had stocked the cupboards with his preferred brand of coffee. The RED base had been lovingly made home in bits and pieces of personal touches.

None of that was evident here. No framed photos, no snacks stashed away in the drawers. Hell, even the brand of coffee and tea sitting next to the coffee pot was the same inoffensive brand their cabins had been stocked with. Quite the contrast to the man who had all but introduced himself as Mister Apple Pie, Spy thought. Quite the contrast indeed.

A few cursory glances through file drawers uncovered a thin passengers log. Spy handed it off to Sniper. “I’ll leave this to you.”

As Spy crouched down to pick the lock on a desk drawer, Sniper flipped the book open. Each passenger had been logged with their name, cabin number, and their accompaniments. He found himself and Spy quickly enough. But their own names were of little interest. Snipers had to be good at looking for details and patterns, spotting the trees within the vast forest. Through the long list of names he spotted young men traveling with their wives, and began to narrow down through potential aliases.

After a few minutes of careful reading he tapped the page. “Here. Some bloke named Saul Esther. Came with his wife.”

“You think it could be that easy?” Spy asked. He smiled as the lock on the drawer finally clicked.

“Worth a shot. Whaddya doing?”

“Looking for an incident log. Esker might behave ‘imself for a night or two, but ‘e’ll get bored soon enough…” Spy’s voice trailed off. He reached deep into the drawer, past all the file folders, and withdrew a small baggie. “Oh. Someone ‘as a very bad ‘abit.”

The white powder in the small baggie gleamed in the moonlight.

“Yeah,” Sniper said warily. “Put that shit back, will ya?”

“Far more interesting than any incident log.” But nevertheless Spy planted the baggie back inside the drawer and closed it. “It seems Captain Dave ‘as some secrets of ‘is own.”

Sniper gave the drawer another wary glance. He didn’t much care for the thought that the man in charge of this whole vessel was snorting heroin in his spare time. He had half a mind to snatch it and throw it out the window. He was about to suggest such when the floor outside the cabin creaked.

Sniper and Spy locked eyes. Not a word passed between them; Spy handed his butterfly knife to Sniper and cloaked. Sniper stood and slid into the shadows. He sidled up behind the door, hand closed around the hilt of the butterfly knife.

Captain Dave came whistling through the door, hands stuffed into his pockets. The door slid shut again. Then Captain Dave staggered forward, tripping over an invisible foot—and Sniper pounced.

They went down in a mess of limbs. Captain Dave was bigger, more muscular, but Sniper had the element of surprise and the experience of an active combatant on his side.

The invisible Spy kicking at Captain Dave’s head might have helped too. Sniper wasn’t inclined to give credit.

It was over in a few seconds, with Captain Dave pinned beneath Sniper and breathing hard. “What the fuck—?!”

Sniper pressed the thin blade to the captain’s neck. “Say another word, and it’s yer life.” Behind him Spy materialized, revolver cocked and pointed dead at Captain Dave.

And Captain Dave’s shoulders sank in obvious relief, and a delighted sort of laugh left him.

“_Wow_! When Hale told me the Administrator had hired you two, I didn’t know he meant it as a compliment!”

Both REDs started, but neither lowered his weapon. They exchanged another glance. “I beg your pardon?” Spy said.

“C’mon, you didn’t really think Saxton Hale was going to let _her_ do all the work of recovering his property, did you?” As he spoke, he sat up on his elbows and grinned up at the pair of REDs. “You two really are the real deal, huh? Cozying up to Isabella Baker—wish I’d thought of that!”

“Who the hell are ya,” Sniper growled, “and what the fuck are ya doin’?”

Spy crouched to press his revolver into Captain Dave’s head. “You ‘ave ten seconds.”

“Oh, hey, you two mean really real business. I’m an independent contractor hired by Saxton Hale to track down his stolen property and eliminate Esker. He told me there might be some other undercover agents onboard, hired by Team Fortress Industries. Figured we’d cross paths, but not this quickly. Code name’s Cloak. Maybe you’ve heard of me?” The last was added to Spy.

“No,” Spy said curtly. Even so he pulled the revolver back away from his head.

Sniper followed his lead, easing up off the spy. “Cloak? Ya got a Dagger around here somewhere?”

“Haha, very funny.” Captain Dave—Cloak—cleared his throat. “He’s waiting in Portofino with the rest of my men. I’m posing as the captain aboard this ship. Easier to keep an eye on things that way.” He gestured towards the security screens.

“Where’s the real Captain Dave?” Sniper asked.

Cloak just shrugged. “Otherwise indisposed.”

Yet another look passed between Sniper and Spy. Spy nodded once before turning back to Cloak with revolver raised. “And ‘ow can we be so certain that you are not Esker ‘imself?”

Cloak raised both hands. “I got nothing to hide—”

“Except your little bag of goodies in your desk. Oh, yes.” Spy allowed himself a smirk as Cloak paled. “Sloppy, sloppy, my boy. No wonder I’ve never ‘eard of you.”

“Look, that’s just—look—that’s different, okay? A man’s allowed to have hobbies, and I need to get through the day looking like a regular Joe-on-the-block. You try socializing with people all day long without going insane.”

“Some of us rely less on drugs and more on charisma,” Spy said drily. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sniper crack a grin. “But back to the point at ‘and. What’s stopping us from shooting you dead?”

Cloak jerked a thumb towards the desk. “I got a hotline to Saxton Hale’s office. I can call him now, if you want. Look—we’re in this together! I don’t have anything to gain from lying to you about why I’m here, but if we work together we can stop Esker dead! I’m up high, watching all the action, and you’re down low mingling with all the people. Esker can’t get far if we have him boxed in this tight.”

And a final glance between Sniper and Spy followed. Sniper shrugged and Spy rolled his eyes, but whatever silent judgment passed between them must have been in Cloak’s favor. Spy lowered his revolver once more. Cloak grinned—until Spy held up a single finger. 

“Betray us, and I will make your life ‘ell on earth.” Spy’s voice was cold and curt. “Until ‘e decides to be merciful and put a bullet through your ‘ead.”

Sniper pantomimed firing a gun in Cloak’s direction. “And it won’t look pretty, mate.”

Beneath the unprofessional beard Cloak was white as a sheet. He managed a shaky sort of grin. “You have nothing to worry about.”

Somehow, that was not assuring.

**…**

“The next morning…”

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute! Wait a minute!”

Philippe stopped mid-sentence. He scowled up at Christian. The bartender’s brow had furrowed, even as he folded his arms over his chest. The alcohol had long since been forgotten, although Lawrence still traced a finger around the mouth of his empty beer bottle. “What?”

“What about the bed?”

“_What bed_?”

“There was only one bed in the cabin! Who got it?”

“We’ve just met three individuals who are about to become vital to our story, and all you want to know is _who got the bed_?!”

“Well, yeah.” Christian lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Can’t make fun of two lesbians and some bozo spy I’ve never met, but you two sharing a bed? Now that’s something I gotta hear about.”

“Perv.” Lawrence yawned.

“Did you really smell like strawberries?” Christian asked.

“Yep. And I smelled damn good, I’ll have ya know.”

“Lower your voice, before ‘e wakes up,” Philippe snapped. He jabbed a thumb towards Blake; the blond was still facedown in a puddle of beer, but every once in a while he stirred. “The last thing I need in my life is ‘im complimenting your smell incessantly. Now…do you want me to continue the story or not?”

Christian leaned forward, so much so that his stout frame was almost sprawled across the bar. “Do you promise to tell me who got the bed?”

“Sure.” Lawrence shrugged.

“Very well.” Philippe sighed. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this. “The next morning…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The willpower it took not to simply write "Lawrence, they're lesbians".


	6. Shaken and Stirred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to another enthralling edition of Knife Dads and Knife Dads' Gay Daughters. As always, thanks to Bel for her quick work and comments!

**Chapter Five: Shaken and Stirred**

The next morning, the gray light of dawn woke Spy first. How very unusual—he’d become accustomed to Soldier breaking down the door every morning at five am sharp. This gentle, natural wake-up was a welcome reprieve.

Spy groaned, stretched, and reached for the watch Sniper had left on the bedside table. Five-thirty in the morning.

Ugh. He hated oversleeping.

Spy pressed a hand to his face and blinked the sleep out of his eyes. Their cabin was darkened and undisturbed; the _Azure Princess_ was still quiet, rocking gently as the waves carried her forward. He cast a look around the room once in disinterest, until his eyes landed on Sniper.

A coin toss had decided their fate. Spy got the bed; Sniper had curled up into the armchair grumbling about bloody cheating Frenchmen.

It was ironic, really, that Sniper was considered an Australian runt when he was just so damn _long_. The legs that seemed to make up ninety-percent of his body were sprawled over the edge of the armchair. Those ridiculous gibbon arms had twisted up and around his torso somehow—one splayed around his stomach, the other wrapped around his own neck. He’d stripped from his party attire quickly enough last night; this left him in a stained wifebeater, faded gray boxers, and red socks. And somehow—for a reason fathomable only to those who made a life slow-baking in the Outback—he’d retrieved his akubra and slid it low over his face. An enormous snore escaped him.

Spy hated him. And then made a mental note to buy him a set of decent pajamas for Christmas.

He flung the covers back, stood, and stretched again. His own silk pajamas made nary a rustle as he padded over to Sniper. He poked him, once, in the shoulder. “Lawrence, arise. We ‘ave much to do today.”

The only response was another cabin-shaking snore. The people in the next cabin would be forgiven for thinking the ship was under attack from some sea-dwelling monster. Sniper twisted a little in the chair, away from the offending bony finger. Spy rolled his eyes, grabbed Sniper by the shoulder, and gave it a rough shake. “LAWRENCE!”

Sniper grumbled and pulled himself inward.

Very well. Let the record show that Spy had tried the civil approach.

Sniper’s eyes snapped open as his hat lifted away from his face. “OI!”

“You overslept!” Spy danced backwards, out of the way of the long arm Sniper swung at him. He flipped Sniper’s hat up onto his own head. “This is the natural consequence of your mistakes!”

“WANKER!”

With that roar, Sniper dove out of the chair after the laughing Spy. A furious chase around the cabin and across its furniture ensued: Sniper might have had all those long limbs at his disposal, but Spy was as slippery as an eel, and an expert in avoiding pissed-off Snipers besides. He nimbly slid across the table and around the chairs, hopping over the armchair and back again as Sniper struggled to pin him down. The battle finally ended with Sniper tackling Spy clear off the bed and onto the floor.

They both landed with a heavy THUD and an “ooph”. For a moment they laid still, breathing hard. Then Sniper sat up on top of Spy with a scowl. He snatched his hat back and squared it over his mussed-up hair. Only then did he punch Spy’s shoulder.

“Quit nickin’ my stuff.”

“Quit giving me no other recourse, then.” With that, Spy shoved Sniper off him and got to his feet. He smoothed out a wrinkle in his fancy silk pajamas.

Sniper flipped him the bird, which Spy returned with a cheery bras d'honneur. Without a further word he moved to the coffee pot and complimentary coffee. Sniper scowled at his back. _Well_, at least one of them had gotten a good night’s sleep. He pulled his wifebeater back into order and moved to the huge windows that overlooked the ocean. Once there he sank to the carpeted floor.

The night’s veil had yet to be completely lifted. Stars still dotted the western horizon, although streaks of gray and pink bled through the black. The water far below churned a dark blue. It was a lovely sight to start the day.

Sniper didn’t care. He was too busy fantasizing about all the ways to get back at Spy, most of which involved a measure of Jarate.

When Spy sank down beside him with two cups of coffee in hand, Sniper sniffed.

“Come, come, don’t pout,” Spy said. “It’s unbecoming of a so-called professional.”

“That better be decaf.”

“I wouldn’t dare offer you otherwise.”

Sniper accepted one mug with a grumble of what might have been thanks. Spy grinned—a rare smile without malice or smarm—and turned to look out the window.

Sniper regarded Spy over the rim of his coffee. Spy’s shoulders were slack, the grip on his coffee loose. The grin had faded to a ghost of a smile, but there was no mistaking the obvious: Spy was having a good morning. The bloody puffed-up Frenchman was having _fun_.

It was still an odd notion to him, at times, the idea that Spy was capable of having fun. For so long Spy had stood at the edge of the RED’s circle, offering only cigarettes and insults to his teammates. For a year Spy had carried on as though the rest of the REDs were beneath him—and perhaps, in some way, they had been. Spy had always been the outlier: pompous, posh, elegant, sneaking around in a suit in the middle of the damn desert. Hell, even Pyro made sense next to Spy—and had made for better company too.

It had taken time, patience, and not one—not two—but _three_ fucking near-death experiences to soften the edges around Spy. Edges that now only seriously maimed instead of killed.

Sniper was closer to Spy than any RED. Only Scout came close, but even then Spy was an exasperated father figure rather than a close confidant. It was different, between he and Spy, and Sniper took a fierce sort of pride in being the one Spy had decided to trust. And yet…

And yet, it still surprised him when Spy let down his guard long enough to let Philippe breathe. Not just Philippe, but _Phil_. Phil, who was allergic to chocolate and liked to roughhouse and occasionally lacked for common sense. Phil who’d never gotten the chance to be a young dumb twentysomething.

It was decided, then. Esker or no, mission or no, Lawrence was going to find some way for Phil to have some damn fun this week. Even if it killed him.

Which, knowing the man sitting cross-legged beside him, it probably would.

Spy gave him a sidelong look. “Trying to make my head explode, are you?”

“Nah.” Sniper shrugged. “I was jus’ thinking.”

“_Again_? That is becoming a very unfortunate ‘abit of yours.”

Sniper shrugged and took a sip of mercifully decaffeinated coffee. “Well, we gotta scope out our mark, right? Startin’ with that fella we found last night in the log.”

“Saul Esther. An unfortunate alias, if it’s indeed our man.”

“Right. And I was thinkin’, well—best thing to do would be get out there and do some recon. Maybe…I dunno, some socializing? One of them yoga things?”

“You despise socializing!”

“I could handle it,” Sniper said. He forced himself to look calm and nonchalant, even if his innards squirmed at the thought. “If it meant I got to take the piss outta you. Besides—” He ribbed Spy gently, making the other man mutter “—you got a better idea?”

“No.” Spy sighed as he settled back. “Do not let this go to your ‘ead. It would make you a bigger target than you already are.” He pressed a finger to his chin. “I suppose we can use our new contact to ‘elp us track down Saul Esther’s activities onboard.”

“What do ya make of him? Spy to spy?”

“Cloak? ‘e’s young, overconfident, and teetering dangerously on the line of unprofessionalism. Very few spies make it to my age, Lawrence. Only the best of the best last this long. The remainder…” He drew a finger across his neck “—do not ‘ave long to mull over their tragic mistakes.”

“What are the odds he took the job just to pay for that shit in his desk?”

“I would not bet against those odds, that much is certain. And if that is the case, ‘e will want to find the fastest avenue to success.”

“Bah.” Sniper wrinkled his nose. “He’s sloppy. He ain’t professional, keepin’ drugs on the job like that. I don’t wanna rely on him.”

Spy glanced Sniper’s way, surprised by the vitriol in his voice. Sniper’s aviators were off; he couldn’t hide the flash of disgust and fury in his eyes from Spy. Spy noted it, considered it, and filed it away for later. “_Rely_ is a very strong word. But we should keep Cloak close, in any case.”

“What are the odds he’s the one we’re lookin’ for? Givin’ us this story to throw us off the scent?”

Spy cocked his head to the side. He sipped his coffee as he mulled over the possibilities. Out the window, yellow and orange now sliced through the gray. In the adjacent cabins they could hear their passengers rousing for the day.

“Esker is controlled, professional. Practical,” Spy said slowly, picking apart his assessment of Esker with what he had seen of Cloak. “And ‘e does not kill. Above all else, ‘e does not kill. No. No, Cloak is not our man.”

“Be easier if it was.” Sniper grimaced as his back and shoulders twinged. “Feels like we’re chasin’ a ghost here.”

“If only it were that simple.”

All around them the _Azure Princess_ stirred to life. Before long the corridors filled with laughter and murmurs, muffled footsteps as passengers made their way to breakfast. Somewhere music played. But the two men remained side-by-side in the cabin, content to drink coffee and finish watching the sunrise.

**…**

Breakfast was a complimentary buffet served in the fourth level dining room; and in Spy’s opinion, if this cruise gave out any more _complimentary_ amenities he was going to think the crew was trying to seduce him.

Sniper and Spy joined the throng milling into the dining room, all the while doing their best not to stick out like a pair of hardened mercenaries among hippies. Sniper wore one of his ridiculous floral prints, which made Spy grimace every time he looked Sniper’s way. Fortunately for his dignity, their fellow passengers were more interested in breakfast than style. Tousle-haired young men and women jostled each other as they grabbed plates and made for the hot trays full of food.

“No sign of Daisy or Baker,” Sniper noted. He stood head-and-shoulders above the rest of the crowd, giving him the perfect vantage.

“Sleeping in, more like than not.” Spy shrugged. “Dear Daisy had enough wine last night to keep ‘erself pickled for a week.”

Sniper grunted in agreement. He twirled his breakfast plate through his hands as he considered the long table of options in front of him. He wasn’t Spy; he had no taste for high cuisine, and his definition of ‘inedible’ was more than a little fuzzy at times. As long as you could scrape the mold off, he reckoned, there was no point in wasting. But here…

Here was a spread of food straight from a magazine. It glistened and gleamed in the morning light and filled the room with a mouth-watering fragrance. Fruit of all shapes and colors, breakfast meats, pancakes and yogurt and a bunch of dishes he couldn’t rightly identify were all for the offering.

He squinted down at one food placard. “What the fuck’s a creepy?”

“Crepe,” Spy muttered. “_Crepe_, you illiterate barbarian.”

“What’s your language need so many vowels for, eh?”

“Like _you_ know what a vowel looks like.”

Sniper heaped his plate high with one of everything. Spy helped himself only to a vanilla yogurt and a small plate of fruit. Together they moved to a table in the less-crowded corner of the room. Their backs faced the wall, all the better to let them watch the early-morning action. Spy spooned a bit of melon out of the flesh, but fresh fruit was less fascinating then the display happening before their eyes.

The only twentysomethings Sniper and Spy had been forced to contend with in recent memory were Scout and Blake, neither of whom were masters of romance. As such, both mercenaries had forgotten just how…_obnoxious_ young people were around each other. Like birds of paradise, the young men danced and preened and adjusted their flamboyant shirts; it was a full show for the women who sipped coffee and murmured amongst themselves, judging the contestants with a harshness bordering on sadistic. Occasionally, though, one would smile, and the young man would whisk her away for more croissants and cappuccinos.

Spy shook his dismay. “I daresay more than one child will be celebrating a birthday nine months from now.” When Sniper’s only reply was a contentious noise, Spy cocked an eyebrow. “What? Did no one ever tell you what men and women do behind closed doors?”

“Piss off.” Sniper stabbed at his strawberry crepe. “M’tryin’ to eat breakfast.”

He didn’t get very far, unfortunately. No sooner had he taken a bite than a muscular block of gold-and-white materialized in front of them. Captain Dave planted his hands on his hips and cracked a wide, winning smile.

“Hey there, strangers! How are my veeeery important guests?”

No reply. Sniper and Spy continued to eat, the latter checking his watch for the time.

“Right.” Cloak sank down in an unoccupied seat across from them. “Shouldn’t you two be doing recon or something right now?”

“Can’t complete a mission on an empty stomach,” Sniper said. As he spoke he slurped up three pieces of piping-hot bacon. Cloak stared, incredulous, before turning to look at Spy. Spy just shrugged in a ‘well-what-can-you-do’ sort of way.

“Wow,” Cloak said. “You two really_ are _something.”

“So they say.” Spy flicked his spoon through his fingers idly. “If you want to be of any use to our operation, young man, find out what programs Saul Esther will be attending throughout the day—”

Cloak arched an eyebrow. “What does Saul Esther have to do with anything?”

“Might be an alias Esker’s usin’.” Sniper answered as he popped a piece of crepe into his mouth.

“Get me into those programs.” Spy finished smoothly. “And we will take it from there.”

“I could be more useful than that!”

“Rest assured—” Spy’s smile was thin “—this is use enough for you.”

Cloak’s eyes narrowed sharply. A less experienced man might have been disconcerted, but Spy just took another bite of vanilla yogurt, content to let Cloak simmer in his dislike.

“Right.” Cloak muttered again. He pushed away from the table and stood. “See you around.” He turned and stalked away. It was impossible to miss the way he clenched and unclenched his fists, as though longing to wrap them around a Frenchman’s neck.

“Pushin’ buttons won’t earn you any friends, Phil.” Sniper said in a low tone.

“Pushing buttons tells me more about our young captain than a round of twenty questions.” Spy sipped his orange juice as he watched Cloak’s retreating back. “And in any case, I ‘ave enough friends.”

**…**

Despite his grumbling, Cloak did his job, and did it quickly. Sniper had been polishing off the last of his bacon and eggs when a crew member stopped by their table, with a note from the Captain himself. From there, it had been a quick discussion in low tones, a mutual agreement, and a discreet trip into a nearby restroom. Spy had gone in; the man who emerged was decades younger, with a mop of curly blond hair and a lopsided grin.

Blake Porter was a guileless twentysomething with no common sense and all the natural balance of a wobbling newborn lamb; he made for a far better disguise on this mission than nearly anyone else. He’d grinned at Sniper, who’d frowned in faint reproach, and waved before setting off in the direction of the gym.

Spy was passingly familiar with the concept of yoga; moreso its Indian roots than the newfangled Western craze. A yoga master had opened that chaotic music festival a few weeks back—this Spy knew because Soldier hadn’t shut up about it—and he had no doubt this session was meant to capitalize on the curiosity of rich peaceniks.

He handed off his hastily-procured reservation to the attendant outside of the gymnasium, and stepped through the threshold. No expense had been spared here: there were stationary bikes, rows of weights and piles of jump ropes, bars and benches and all manner of equipment designed to make you enjoy hurting your body. Along the far wall Spy caught sight of an impressive-looking rock wall. He made a mental note to mention it to Sniper later—it looked like the kind of causally dangerous activity a bushman obsessed with vantage points might like.

Most of the other attendees were milling around beside pre-placed yoga mats, chatting excitedly and comparing notes on previous experiences. Spy-as-Blake approached causally, hands stuffed into his pockets and ear primed for snatches of conversation.

“—I’ve never been to a session before!—”

“—It’s very relaxing, you’ll enjoy it—”

“—Hey, are you gonna be at the party tonight?—”

“—C’mon, Saul, it’s not the end of the world!”

Spy turned into a relaxed circle, admiring the rock wall once more, and following that particular line of interest. Not two feet away, a woman folded her arms over her chest and glared at a man who could only be described, in the most generous of terms, as a _nerd_. He was reedy, bespectacled, and arguing long and hard about how the dust in the gym made his asthma worse. To that, the woman rolled her eyes. “Saul, you _promised_!”

_Wrong man_, Spy thought at once. Still, looks could be deceiving, as his own current state attested. Best to keep an eye on Saul Esther.

He stepped up to the empty mat just behind Saul and his indignant wife, listening to them argue in low tones. Spy made a show of pretending-not-to-listen-but-adamantly-listening, as all people were wont to do when it came to a public argument. Certainly, the redheaded woman beside him was absorbed in the argument: she watched with a thin smile, a smile that only grew when Saul’s wife whapped him on the shoulder.

Spy caught her eye and gestured to them. “Married life, huh?” he said cheerily, in a pitch-perfect imitation of Blake’s affability.

She had eyes the color of whiskey, and they flashed in irritation. “Do I know you?” Her tone was ice, freezing any attempt at conversation dead in its tracks.

Spy stilled—and then forced his face into an apologetic smile. “Uh, no, sorry, miss!”

She rolled her eyes and went back to her business of watching other people. Spy continued to watch her out of the corner of his eye, fighting back a suddenly-racing heart. Her hair was the most obvious difference, but it wasn’t the only one: her clothes were plainer, her posture slackened to make her appear shorter. Her makeup, by contrast, heightened her cheekbones and changed the shape and shade of her lips. But there was nothing Isabella Baker could do to hide the color of her eyes.

Saul Esther dropped two full bullet points on Spy’s to-do list.

Nobody else recognized Baker, leaving them both to people-watch in peace. Saul and his wife had finished their argument just as the yoga instructor stepped through an adjacent door. Their instructor was a too-smiley white man who spoke slowly, presumably so people thought him wise, and talked at ponderous length about the origins and spirituality of yoga.

Spy was willing to bet—well, not his salary, perhaps, but a sizable portion of his savings—that the man had never set foot in India.

What followed over the next hour was a lot of hippie-laden nonsense about inner light and deep breathing, interrupted by stretches of varying intensity. Spy watched and listened and tried not to let how much he loathed all this show on Blake’s face.

By the time the hour passed, Saul was sweaty and cursing, Baker looked bored, and if Spy heard the words ‘downward dog’ one more time he was to shank someone. After the instructor rang a bell three times, he was the first to jump up and make for the door.

The corridor was mercifully empty. Spy deactivated his disguise, sidled up against the wall, and waited.

The rest of the group followed in fits and bursts (Saul complained loudly about a stitch in his side). Baker was among the last to leave, and when she did she moved to the rail, staring out at the sea with an almost frustrated expression. Spy allowed her a moment to herself before stepping up beside her. “I’ve ‘eard the sea is a wonderful confidant to melancholy.”

She didn’t jump, to her credit. But she did stiffen. “Do I know you?”

“You’re among confidants, Mademoiselle Baker,” Spy gestured to the sea and then to himself. He resisted the urge to crack a grin at her slowly-dawning outrage. “For what it’s worth, that is a magnificent wig. Not suited for yoga, however.”

“You—!” She cut her own indignation short. Baker straightened up, standing to her full height to glare down at Spy. “I didn’t see you in there.”

Spy shrugged. “I ‘ave my own ways of going unnoticed, if I so chose. Yours is particularly effective as well. Not a soul gave you a second glance.”

“Then how did you know it was me?”

“There are many things one can change about their appearance. Their hair, for instance. Their posture. Even the slight lilt to their voice that causes them to stress certain constants. Yes,” he nodded when she scowled. “A person can change many things. But she cannot change the enchanting color of her eyes.”

“I don’t need your flattery,” Baker snapped. Her scowl deepened. “Others would have given me away in an instant.”

Spy touched a finger to his mask. “Others do not sympathize with the need for discretion. Though I must confess, I am curious. A ruined face you do not possess—why the need for hiding? Tiring of your admirers?”

“I don’t want admirers.” Baker snapped. She turned back to the sea, staring out at the endless stretch of blue. “I want to be left alone.”

Spy arched an eyebrow—but that was all he managed before he heard the scream, the heavy THUD, and the cry of “HEY! THAT’S MINE!”. A split-second later, a man came barreling around the corner, moving like all the devils of hell were on him.

Spy gave Baker a small, apologetic smile. “Let’s continue this later, shall we?”

And then he was in pursuit.

**…**

The brochure offered a billiards’ club on the first floor, which suited Sniper’s sense of mingling just fine. He strolled through the corridors of the _Azure Princess_ with hands in his pockets. Outwardly, he was a content wanderer. Inwardly, it was hard not to think about the odd looks from passersby, looks that made the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up.

Those _looks_ were old enemies at his back. No matter where he went he was the odd one out. In Australia he was the undersized, mustache-less runt; everywhere else he was the cause of curiosity, a sunbaked platypus so out-of-place among civilized folk.

Dimly, he wished Spy had come along. Comfort was not something the prickly Frenchman was well-versed in, but a comment muttered under his breath would have been a welcome distraction. Funny, really, that a man who’d built a reputation as a rustic recluse would have felt better with a snide urbanite at his side.

Sniper withheld a sigh. What a life.

The billiard room was mostly empty, and so far it was the dingiest part of the cruise ship he’d seen. Smoke clung to the wallpaper and rug, giving everything a hazy feeling. There were three billiards tables, a foosball table, and a number of tables and chairs dotting the room. The bar was stocked with an impressive array of bottles, but of the bartender himself there was no sign. A few patrons smoked as they played darts. Sniper gave them an appraising look, readying himself for an introduction—

And then his eyes fell on a dozing blonde in the corner of the room.

Daisy had her head flat on a wooden table. Her blonde hair obscured her face from view; a pair of purple sunglasses were folded up next to her head. She groaned when Sniper sank down beside her.

“Last night finally catch up to ya, Sheila?”

“Shut up.” Daisy groaned. “Shush, no talking. Head hurting.”

Sniper had to chuckle at her misfortune, which had Daisy raising her head to glare at him. Her eyes were roughly the color of a ripe tomato. “It’s rude to laugh at damsels in distress.”

“Damsel, huh? The way you were knocking back drinks last night, kid, I mistook ya for a hard-drinking wench.”

“Shut up. Shut up and leave me to my misery.”

Sniper considered her with wry amusement. He could certainly up and leave her—and had, in fact, done very much the same to Scout after the boy had had one too many at the Teufort bar. But Daisy had been an amicable sort of drunk, and as such Sniper just patted her on the shoulder. “C’mere, kid, we’ll get you fixed right up.”

Daisy grumbled and moaned, but allowed herself to be pulled over to the bar. She sank onto a stool with a wince, preparing to rest her head again—and then immediately shot upright when Sniper hopped across the bar. “Hey! I don’t think we’re supposed to go back there!”

“What’re they gonna do, lock me in the brig?”

“I dunno. Maybe.”

Sniper shook his head as he rummaged around the back of the bar, looking for the key ingredients. “C’mon, never hurt to bend a rule or two.”

Huh. Maybe Spy was rubbing off on him a little too much.

When he straightened with ingredients in hand, he found the few other occupants in the billiards room had gathered around Daisy. Sniper paused, glancing from expectant face to expectant face. “Well? What do you all want?”

“What’re you gonna do?” asked one young man with one of those shaggy Beatles haircuts.

“Erm…” Sniper cleared his throat, suddenly feeling as though he was at the head of a row of ducklings. “Hangover cure.”

The twentysomethings pressed in closer.

“Friend of mine showed me how to make this years ago.” Sniper said. He cracked an egg into a glass, adding in a dash of Worcestershire sauce and a pinch of black pepper. “He’s a bartender, and he swears by it—”

…

“Hey!” Christian perked up. “I made it into this story!”

“Yes, you’re very important,” Philippe snapped. “Now shut up.”

…

“—and another pal drinks so often we sometimes just gotta have these stocked in the fridge.” He slid the glass across the bar to Daisy. “It’ll wake ya right up.”

Daisy frowned at the raw egg, but nevertheless tossed it back. A full shudder ran the length of her body. “This tastes horrid!”

“Never said it’d taste good,” Sniper replied. “Only that’ll wake ya up.”

“I think I’ll stick to coffee.” Daisy wrinkled her nose and pushed the empty glass away.

“Not me!” said Beatle Boy. He snatched the glass and held it up. “This is gonna be a lifesaver this week! Thanks, man!”

“Yeah.” Sniper hopped back over the bar and dusted his hands. “Tell all your friends.”

The twentysomethings, save Daisy, scattered to do just that. She continued to peer up at him—a little more clear-eyed than before. “Thanks,” she said slowly. “You didn’t have to take the time.”

Sniper shrugged. “Mum always taught me what goes around comes around.”

In his daily life, that usually meant bullets in his head and knives in his back. But it was nice, having Daisy smile up at him like that. Sniper scratched his sideburns, “Speakin’ of good deeds, ya left your heels at the dinner table. I snatched ‘em for ya.”

Her smile warmed further. “You’re such a gentleman.”

“Don’t say that too loud, now. Phil gets wind of that, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

They started out of the billiards room together, both stuffing their hands into their pockets as they went.

“Where is the huge prick anyways?”

“Yoga,” Sniper said. He and Daisy shuddered in unison. “And how ‘bout your…” Friend? Lover? Companion? How much did he let spill to the young woman? “…Isabella?” he ventured at last.

Daisy laughed. “Also at yoga! I was going to join her, but…I got lost.”

“Next time aim for the billiards room first. Then you’ll find the gym.”

“Very funny.” Daisy sighed. “I swear, I’m not always this useless. Growing up in Vermont just gave me a different sense of space. All the mountains and trees.” She waved a vague hand around.

Now that, Sniper could sympathize with. He nodded. “Braver sort than me, Sheila. I could never give up the wild for city streets.” His few forays into Sydney had been enough for him, never mind New York or—God forbid—Paris.

“Well, you do what you have to, when you have a dream. Even if it’s hard.” Melancholy flittered across her face. It was a deep, inexorable sadness Sniper recognized in an instant.

“Family doesn’t approve, huh?”

“They wanted me in the family business,” she groaned. “But there’s no glamour in making maple syrup!”

Sniper nodded sympathetically. “My dad wanted me to be a doctor. Took him ages to get over the disappointment.”

“But he got there?”

“In time.”

“And it was worth it?”

“In the end.” He shrugged. “No point in livin’ by someone else’s standards. Long as you can look yourself in the mirror every mornin’, you’re doing all right.” He was careful to emphasize the last, trying to put into tone what was hard to say in words.

He wasn’t sure if she got everything he was trying to say, but in any case Daisy looked truly, genuinely touched. “That’s….really very sweet of you. Thank you.”

“HEY! THAT’S MINE!”

Sniper’s head snapped towards the shout—just in time to see a man barreling down the hallway. He shoved Sniper and Daisy aside, sprinting towards the next junction. Sniper didn’t need to see Spy skidding around the corner in hot pursuit, or to hear the wail of a young woman—he was off like shot after the would-be thief.

Spy caught up to him, and together they chased the thief through the winding corridors of the _Azure Princess_; shouts and yelps echoed around them as they knocked passengers aside, drawing more attention to the fray.

The thief leaped down a full flight of stairs towards the main deck. Spy skidded to a halt, snapping an arm out to catch Sniper at the chest. “I’ll go low,” he said, point to the Main Deck staircase.

Sniper pointed to the stairs leading to the Second Level. “I’ll go high!”

Spy cloaked, and Sniper flung himself up the ascending staircase. He didn’t slow his pace, and by the time he got to the balcony he was winded and red in the face. Other passengers gave him looks as he sprinted to the balcony rail, scanning the main deck below for frantic movement. It was crowded with sunbathers, lounging by the giant pool taking up a good chunk of the—THERE!

The thief had appeared topside, making a full run for the nearest railing.

Sniper looked left and right before snatching a full tumbler of whiskey from a nearby hand. He ignored the indignant shout to his left, took aim, and threw.

He was no baseball enthusiast, but he was a marksman, and he’d yet to meet a target he couldn’t hit. The tumbler went sailing through the air, pelting those below with whiskey and ice, before shattering right in the front of the thief.

The thief skidded to a halt, baffled. And then he lurched to the left, his head snapping back as though punched by an invisible man. The same invisible man plowed an elbow into the thief’s stomach, slammed his face with the back of his fist—and sent the thief tumbling into the pool.

“Wow,” said the guy to Sniper’s left. “How did you do that?”

“Practice.”

With that, he spun and sprinted to the Main Deck. Not that he needed too—by the time he got there, security had already fished the thief out of the pool. Captain Dave was present, making a million apologies and handing off a sodden wallet to a visibly-shaking young woman.

Whoops and applause went up as Sniper stumbled onto the deck. “There he is!” “Did you SEE that?!” “How did he do that? Didn’t even look like he hit him!”

Sniper froze, uncertain of how to deal with the accolades. People staring at him was usually _not_ a cause for excitement. When the victim ran up and threw her arms around him, it was all Sniper could do not to squirm out of her grasp.

“Thank you!”

“Uh—sure—no problem, m’sure you’d do the same for me—”

That only earned him a watery laugh and a tightened hug.

The invisible Spy watched with a wry amusement, content to let Sniper have all the admiration, especially if it meant having to endure an ever-lengthening embrace. Cloak had the thief by the scruff of the neck and was hauling him below. Spy began to follow suit—until a flash of red caught his eye.

Isabella Baker watched the proceedings from the second balcony. She leaned against the rail, cigarette dangling from her fingertips. Even from here, he could see the way her eyes locked on Sniper.

Baker flicked her spent cigarette overboard, turned on her heel, and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author of this fic cannot endorse the use of prairie oysters as an effective hangover cure-all. The author of this fic also advises her readers to carefully study the difference between the prairie oyster recipe and the Rocky Mountain oyster recipe. One will allegedly cure your hangover. The other is, quite literally, a bunch of bull.


	7. It Takes Two to Tango

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! As always, a huge thanks to Belphegor, I'm 98% sure she's a wizard when it comes to quick beta turn-arounds.

**Chapter Six: It Takes Two to Tango**

As it turned out, cruise ships _did _contain brigs. Spy followed Cloak through the lower decks of the _Azure Princess_. There was little in the way of glitz and glamour down here: their surroundings were practical, mechanical, and the lights overhead sterile. The thief protested the whole way down, his venomous curses rebounding off steel walls. Cloak, to his credit, kept a firm grip on his quarry the entire time, not even flinching when the thief’s foot collided with his shin.

Spy remained invisible. He was content to watch, curious to see how the younger spy would handle this.

The hallway narrowed; the deafening roar of the engine grew louder. For half a heartbeat Spy thought Cloak meant to throw the thief into the engine room. Then he took a sharp right, moved to the end of the next corridor, and wrenched a steel door open with one hand. Cloak threw the thief into the room and slammed the door shut behind him—but not before Spy slipped in.

It was a small, unglamorous room, with nothing but a hard bed for decoration; the type security might throw a rowdy drunkard into for the night to cool off.

The thief rolled his shoulders back as Cloak advanced on him. “Hey, asshole! I got rights an’ stuff, you can’t just—”

The blow to his jaw took him clear off his feet. The thief landed with a heavy thud. Cloak flexed his hand once before crouching down. After a moment he pulled back, a sodden billfold wallet in hand. The thief started, grabbing at his wallet—only to be stunned by a second blow. Cloak snorted and got to his feet.

“Griffin, Vincent,” Cloak read off his driver’s license, ignoring the pained wheezes of the man at his feet. “What cabin are you in?”

“Cabin Seventy-Two.” Vincent wiped blood from his lip. He was breathing hard, dripping wet from the pool, and the bruises on his face were already beginning to darken.

“I run a tight ship here, Vinny,” Cloak said. He tossed the wallet aside. “And I don’t tolerate theft.”

“Look, asshole, I don’t have to say a word if I don’t wanna, I’m protected under the Fifth Amendment…”

Vincent fell silent as Cloak crouched in front of him again. With a small _fwick!_, he produced a pocket knife. A heavy, panicked breath left Vincent as Cloak pressed the point under his chin. “International waters,” Cloak said with a grim smile. Dark red blood welled underneath the tip of the knife. “Tends to muddy the whole legality of the thing.”

A corner of Spy’s mouth twitched upwards. Spy to spy, he appreciated a dramatic flair when he saw it. Still invisible, unnoticed by either man, he crouched down beside Vincent Griffin. He had a lean, pinched face, and his dark eyes were round with fear. His entire body shivered from cold and fear.

Not the stiff spine needed for an international thief, Spy noted. Any spy would have realized that after a moment of consideration. He glanced up at Cloak’s hungry expression. He was learning much here. Much, and more.

“So,” Cloak was saying, “let’s try this again. Why the_ fuck _did you think it was a good idea to start stealing on _my_ ship?”

“Hey hey hey—watch the knife! I wasn’t stealing for shits and giggles, okay? Okay? I’m not a criminal, man, I’m just on vacation! I didn’t mean to—!”

“You didn’t mean to knock that woman over and take her wallet?” Cloak sneered. “It just _magically _wound up in your hand?”

“Fine, fine. I took the wallet, all right? I took the wallet. But it wasn’t my idea! Someone _asked_ me!”

Both spies froze. Then Cloak leaned forward, grip on his knife trembling, and Spy got to his feet. He began to circle around Cloak and Vincent like an unnoticed predator.

“Say that again?” Cloak demanded. 

Vincent whined and pulled back away from the knife at his throat. “I just wanted to make a few bucks, okay? I lost a lot of money last night gambling, and I just wanted to make up my losses. It was a mistake! A _mistake_!” He spat the last word out, as though that would save him. “Some guy cornered me this morning, before breakfast—he talked really fast, really, really fast, I didn’t have time to say no!”

“What did _he_ tell you?”

Spy looked away as Vincent babbled. He didn’t need to watch Vincent’s frantic eyes darting back and forth; he didn’t need to watch the way Cloak’s eyes gleamed. He focused instead of Vincent’s voice, cadence and emotion, peeling away truth from lies.

So far, he heard nothing but panicked truth: “He waved a bunch of money in my face, and told me it was all mine if I could do him a favor! He wanted me to make a distraction, steal something!”

Spy paused in his pacing. Now _that_ was certainly interesting.

Cloak thought so too, based on how he adjusted his grip on his knife. “He said that? Steal something?”

“Yeah, yeah! It didn’t matter what, he said, just steal something. Make a distraction.” Vincent nodded along to his own words, desperate to throw the blame on his mysterious benefactor.

“Did he tell you why he wanted you to do that?”

“No.” He licked his lips. “He just wanted someone to make a scene. Said he wanted to test something. Those were his exact words—I want to test something. That’s what he said.”

“And you just did what he said?”

“It was a lot of money, man! A lot of money! He was about to fork over ten grand! You’d do the same thing!”

Spy glanced back at Cloak—just in time to see the flicker in his eyes. His own eyes narrowed sharply. Would Cloak have done the same thing, if asked? What was the price of Cloak’s loyalty—ten grand, or more?

But then Cloak’s expression smoothed back over into contempt. “This man, did he give you a name?”

“What is this, twenty questions? No, he didn’t give me a name, okay! He didn’t ask for mine, I didn’t ask for his.”

“What did he look like?”

“Dunno—” A growl escaped Cloak, and Vincent shrank backwards even as he continued: “He didn’t let me get a good luck! Uh—tall, really tall, muscles and stuff. He was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap.”

“Beard?”

“No. Redhead, though. I could see the hair underneath the hat.”

Redhead. It was a slim little detail—plenty of redheads in the sea, after all—but it was a detail they hadn’t had before. Esker had met face-to-face with someone, allowed himself to be seen. Growing bold, Esker? Spy thought to himself. Careless? Or did he know he was being pursued, and was he determined to lead them on a merry chase across the Atlantic?

At long last Cloak drew his knife away from Vincent’s knife. He folded the blade back into the holder and pocketed it. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful in this investigation.” He stood, turned on his heel, and made for the door. The invisible Spy followed on his heels.

“Wait—hey, you’re gonna let me go, right? Right? C’mon, you can’t keep me here! HEY—HEY!” Vincent scrambled up, after Cloak as he made to shut the heavy iron door. 

“_I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG!_”

The door slammed shut, the lock slid into place, and Vincent’s cry of despair hung the air between them. 

Cloak took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders back. Spy continued to watch him, almost impressed. Cloak had done an admirable job of squeezing information out of a patsy, and he’d done it without getting a single drop of blood on his suit. He readied to decloak, a quip on his tongue—when Cloak reached into his jacket and produced a handgun.

Spy decloaked with a sudden, almost sharp _snap_. He caught Cloak by the wrist. “And just _what_ do you think you’re doing?”

Cloak jumped and tried to wrench away, but Spy had an iron vice grip on his wrist. All he could do was settle for a scowl. “He’s of no more use to us. Best to dispose of him now.”

“Dead men may tell no tales,” Spy said. He released Cloak with a flick of the wrist, as though he’d been forced to touch something unpleasant. “But bodies tend to leave questions behind. We’re on a crowded cruise ship. If Griffin ‘as friends or family present, they won’t accept that ‘e fell overboard after being arrested for petty theft. _Think_!”

“He’s an accomplice!” Cloak snapped back.

Now that they were standing face-to-face, the explanation for his twitchiness was evident. Spy noted Cloak’s flushed cheeks before raising his gaze to dilated pupils. Cloak had been using in the past few hours. Contempt rose in his throat, hot as bile, but Spy swallowed it back. 

“Griffin was little more than a useful pawn for Esker. I doubt ‘e will ‘ave much more use for ‘im, now that Esker ‘as want ‘e wants.” Spy spoke slowly, carefully, for Cloak’s understanding as well as controlling his own slow-building fury. “Your ‘abits cloud your thinking. Killing Griffin now will cause fifty more problems.”

“It’ll send a warning to Esker.”

“The death of a pawn will send Esker rabbiting. If Esker went out of his way to find a patsy, then ‘e is either growing bold or careless—and either state of mind is easily manipulated. If ‘e finds out we’re willing to kill, ‘e goes to the ground and we lose ‘im _completely_.” Spy finally allowed an ounce of impatience to seep into his tone. “Patience, boy.”

“Don’t call me _boy_,” Cloak snarled. Nevertheless he holstered his gun once more. “What do you suggest we do? Line up every redhead onboard and start questioning them?”

Spy opened his cigarette case. He popped a cigarette into his mouth, lit it, and took a contemplative drag. He tore his gaze from Cloak—just looking at the younger spy sent his blood pressure skyrocketing—and instead stared at the nondescript wall. That, at least, couldn’t get mouthy against his ire. 

“Those security monitors in your office,” he said at last. “You can review the footage, oui?”

“Yeah.”

“Very well. Let’s allow our new friend to cool ‘is ‘eels,” Spy nodded to the locked door. “And we shall see ‘ow well Solomon Esker covers ‘is tracks.”

He and Cloak were silent as they ascended together towards the captain’s cabin. That was for the best. Spy had nothing in particular he wanted or needed to say. His dislike settled deep into the pit of his stomach, simmering there like a pot on a slow boil. Cloak must have felt it radiating off him, and wisely kept his mouth shut.

“We keep security tapes for twenty-four hours,” he said as he keyed into the captain’s cabin. “If Esker and Griffin had a chat, we should be able to find them.”

“Where are the cameras located on the ship?” Spy asked. 

“Most major traffic areas. By the pool, the dining room, the ballroom, high-traffic corridors…” As he spoke Cloak settled himself down in front of the long row of computers. Spy stood beside him with arms folded over his chest. His eyes flicked from screen to screen, searching for Sniper and coming up short. Whichever room he was in, security had deemed it unworthy of attention.

After a few minutes of silent searching, Cloak crowed in triumph. He jabbed a finger at a lower-left screen. With a free hand he pressed a button on the motherboard, rewinding back through the last two hours. Yes, there was Griffin, yawning and looking bored as he walked with the crowd to breakfast—only to be intercepted. Both Cloak and Spy leaned forward. The interrupter—tall, wearing a baseball cap, as Griffin said—had his back to the camera and one hand on Griffin’s shoulder.

He knew where the cameras were, Spy thought. Of course he would. Esker wouldn’t leave something like that to chance.

He watched Griffin’s expression slide from annoyed to wary to intrigued. Esker wrapped a hand around his shoulder, leaned in close to continue talking and gently ushered Griffin into a nearby closet, no doubt to work out the details. All the while Esker kept his head down, angled away from the camera, giving them nothing but a good look at the emblem on the cap…

Spy’s eyes narrowed suddenly. “Freeze the video.” He leaned forward, pressing one hand to the back of Cloak’s chair and the other to the screen. “Well, well, _well_.”

“What?” Cloak said, frowning as he studied the frozen image onscreen: Griffin, pinched face alight with greed, and the baseball cap lowered over Esker’s face.

“We now know one crucial fact,” Spy said. He made a mental note to thank Scout once they were back in Teufort. The speedster’s endless reserve of baseball facts was good for something after all.

“What’s that?”

“Solomon Esker is a Yankees fan.”

**…**

“—the secret, ‘course, is not to let fear get the better of ya. Soon as ya start overthinkin’, s’all over. Jus’ follow your instincts and…”

His Bowie knife darted between his fingers, a blur of motion in a well-rehearsed dance. The tip of his knife never once touched his skin, and it was with a satisfied smile that Sniper set his knife down.

The bar exploded into wild applause. Sniper doffed his hat before handing his knife off to the first young man next to him. “Let’s have a go at it, eh?”

Celebrity status wasn’t something Sniper wanted or needed, but he couldn’t deny the appeal of free drinks. After finally untangling himself from the wallet owner, Sniper had found himself surrounded by a gaggle of well-wishers and admirers, who whisked him over to the bar for a round of free drinks and more tales of daring. Of Spy, there was no sign. Most likely he was busy interrogating the thief while Sniper sat here, knocking back piña coladas.

Oh, he was never going to hear the end of this.

“C’mon, coming through, outta the way!”

Daisy popped up next to him and slammed a small cup of something onto the bar. Sniper peered over his aviators at the bright pink contents. “What’s this, then? Pepto-Bismol?”

“Frozen yogurt!” Daisy replied cheerily. She elbowed someone out of the way and sank down next to him. “Strawberry-flavored.”

“And that’s for me, is it?”

“Well, I didn’t buy enough for the whole bar. Consider it returning the favor.”

Sniper inspected the frozen pink dairy treat carefully—and then shot his hand out, catching the young man with his knife by the wrist. “Adjust your grip before ya lose your thumb.”

The young man stared at his thumb before wisely setting the knife back down. Sniper snorted and slid his knife back into its holster. Quite the sight, a man in tropical print with frozen yogurt in one hand and a Bowie knife in the other.

With Daisy’s entrance the crowd had begun to peel off. Sniper allowed himself a small sigh of relief as the pressure eased off…which became a scowl when he saw how intensely Daisy studied him. She had her elbows on the bar and her chin in her hands, watching him the way some small girls watched interesting bugs.

He shifted. “_What_?”

“Y’know—” Daisy extended a finger out to poke him just under the eye “—we gotta do something about those crow’s feet.”

“Crow’s feet?” Sniper exclaimed as he swatted her hand away. “Girl, I work out in the sun ten hours a day, five days a week! I don’t have to worry about whether I got crow’s feet!”

“That’s _exactly_ why you need to worry! The sun causes premature aging! Though—” She grabbed his chin and yanked him down to eye level “—it might be too late for that.”

“Can it!” He pulled himself out of her vice grip. And then he added, in an indignant mutter to himself: “_I’m younger than Phil_.”

“Sure, sure.” Daisy waved a hand around. “I still think you could use a day in the spa.”

“Hell, no,” Sniper said. He then took a resolute bite of pink frozen yogurt.

“C’mon! It’ll be fun! Facials and massages and manicures—”

“What the _hell _is a manicure?”

“That is exactly why you need one. Look at those palms! You could light a match on them!”

Sniper caught himself examining his calloused hands before clenching them into fists. “Will ya _quit _pickin’ on me, girl!”

“Why?” Daisy batted her big brown eyes. “Big scary bushman can’t handle being picked on?”

“A flea’s a little thing, but it’s still a damn flea. Mind yourself, kid, or when we get to Portofino first thing m’gonna do is throw you in a nunnery.”

She rolled her eyes. “You sound like my _grandfather_.”

“Low blow, Carmichael.” Sniper shoved another spoonful of frozen yogurt into his mouth. “Low blow.”

The bushman and the costumer sat side-by-side in silence for a time. Cheery music played in the distance, punctuated by laughter and shouts. The morning’s interruption had already been forgotten. Daisy rubbed her neck and rolled her shoulders back, easing out the knots. She looked back to Sniper, waiting for him to spoon more frozen yogurt into his mouth.

“So…what else are you gonna do in Portofino besides visiting lonely old nuns?”

She grinned, wickedly, when he choked.

“Christ!” he said as he slammed his fist into his chest. The plastic spoon clattered onto the bar. “Watch your words, ya blasphemous brat!”

But her question nevertheless made him pause. What were he and Spy going to do if they made it to Portofino without catching Esker? What was the back-up plan?

“Dunno,” he said with a shrug. “Jus’ seein’ the sights, I guess. Anything you recommend?”

“WELL.” Daisy slammed one hand down on the bar. “Where does one _start_?”

She rambled on for a time about lighthouses and house museums and hot spots for artists and intellectuals and beachfront properties— “And from here the view of the water is gorgeous! It sparkles! Really, _really _sparkles!”—and all Sniper had to do was nod and occasionally say “huh” or “nice”. The strategy worked quite nicely for about three minutes, until she pulled a pamphlet from her pocket.

“—but the thing I’m looking forward to the most is THIS!”

She slammed the pamphlet down in front of him in an obvious ‘ta-da!’ gesture.

Sniper stared down at the battered pamphlet, the multiple creases that told him this particular pamphlet had been read many, many times. The picture on the front had faded from exposure, but there was no diminishing its grandeur. His heart skipped a beat, a sudden bounce that had his whole body tensing. Blood roared into his ears.

“Huh.” Sniper scraped his spoon along the bottom of the bowl, polishing off the last of the frozen yogurt. His eyes never once left the pamphlet. “That’s neat.”

**…**

“I need to talk to you!”

It was an exclamation said in unison. Sniper and Spy had spotted each other from the other end of a second-floor hallway, and now they stopped short a few feet from each other. Spy gestured impatiently. “You first, then.”

“Not here.” Sniper glanced around before grabbing Spy by the elbow and hauling him into a supply closet.

Spy kicked a mop bucket aside and brushed a spider off his shoulder. “A broom closet? ‘ow very intimate.”

“C’mon, Spy,” Sniper said as he slammed the door shut. “This is a matter of security.”

“I’d feel more _secure _with a modicum of personal space.” Spy wrinkled his nose as Sniper stepped close to him. He folded his arms over his chest. “Well? What is it?”

“This.” From his chest pocket Sniper produced the same well-creased pamphlet Daisy had shown to him. It had taken a great deal of gentle cajoling, and a solemn promise to return it, before she had reluctantly allowed him to borrow it. He smoothed the pamphlet out before handing it to the dubious Spy.

“What’s this? You finally learned ‘ow to read, and you’re showing off?” Spy snatched the pamphlet out of his hands. He frowned at its worn state before scanning the contents. The pamphlet boasted of a Portofino museum hosting a traveling gallery of rare gems and minerals. The center piece was a gorgeous blue-green gem called alexandrite. One of the rarest gems in the world, the pamphlet boasted, with a value in the thousands ranges…

The realization clicked.

Spy lifted his eyes back to the expectant Sniper. “You think Esker is going after the alexandrite.”

“Yeah.” Sniper shoved his hands into his pockets. “Can’t be coincidence, can it? He steals shit from Mann Co., uses it to make off with some pretty rock.”

“This is _alexandrite_, Lawrence! One of the most valuable gems in the world!”

“And I wouldn’t know it from a pebble on the street! S’just a bloody rock!”

“Your ‘ead is as thick as a bloody rock,” Spy muttered. He shoved the pamphlet back at Sniper. “Where did you find this, anyway?”

“Daisy. Met up with her this afternoon, she started ramblin’ about all the sights in Portofino.” Sniper folded the pamphlet back up and slid it into his chest pocket. “She bought me frozen yogurt,” he added as an afterthought.

“I beg your pardon?” Spy quirked an eyebrow.

“Frozen yogurt.” Sniper said again. “S’not half-bad, really.”

Spy stared at him, wondering why on earth they were having this conversation. What did Sniper expect him to do with this information? How on earth was this useful? His stomach gave a little twist of irritation. “Why would she buy you frozen yogurt?”

Sniper flicked a bit of imaginary dust from his shoulder. “She thinks I’m _gentlemanly_.”

“It’s probably a slow-acting poison. You’re going to drop dead at any moment.”

“Y’know, Phil, people can do things for people jus’ for the helluva it.”

“I refuse to believe it,” Spy said. He watched Sniper roll his eyes before lowering his gaze to his chest pocket. “Well, poisoned yogurt or no, that pamphlet certainly explains why Esker felt the need to practice.”

“Eh?”

“Come, I’ll fill you in on the way.” Spy gestured to the door. “I don’t want to be trapped in a closet with you when the poison reaches your heart.”

A lazy sort of haze settled over the ship as four-o’-clock set in. Passengers lounged in chairs and around the pool, applying liberal amounts of sunscreen to each other’s glistening skin. Others had vanished back into the cabins for an afternoon nap, recharging for the evening’s activities. Sniper and Spy went undisturbed as they made their way back to their cabin. Spy spoke in low tones the whole time, recapping the exchange between Cloak and Griffin as well as his own findings about Esker.

Sniper snorted as he jammed the cabin key into the door. “Redhead and a Yankees fan…Scout would kill ‘im on sight.” He swung the door open, allowing Spy in first. “Best keep an eye on Griffin. Sounds like Cloak ain’t used to bein’ told no.”

“It seems there are plenty of things Cloak isn’t used to,” Spy said. He sank down onto the bed, oddly exhausted. “I’d like to know what ‘ole in the ground Hale dug ‘im out of.”

“Admin ain’t gonna be happy when she finds out Hale hired his own team.” As he spoke Sniper tossed off his tropical print shirt and made for the bathroom. “Wonder what her revenge will be?”

“Something punitive and imaginatively petty, no doubt.” From his vantage point on the bed, Spy watched the shirtless Sniper examine himself in the mirror. “What are you doing?”

Sniper leaned forward, so close to the mirror his nose almost touched the reflective surface. “Do I have crow’s feet?”

“_What_?”

“Crow’s feet? Do I got ‘em?”

“Yes,” Spy replied, completely bewildered. “And?”

“…never mind.” Sniper stepped back from the mirror. He moved to lean up against the doorframe. “What did Esker steal from Mann Co. anyway? Might help us figure out how he’s gonna make off with any loot.”

“An excellent question. One I’m willing to answer once you put a shirt on. NOT THAT ONE.” Spy scowled as Sniper made to grab the shirt he had just discarded from the floor. “A _clean _one, pour l'amour de Dieu.”

“This _is _clean!” Sniper protested.

“No, it isn’t. I can see the sweat stains from ‘ere.” Spy got to his feet and pivoted towards his own suitcase.

Sniper scowled, bunched up the admittedly-stained shirt, and threw it at Spy’s head. Spy ducked, and the shirt bounced off the wall with a harmless _fumph_. Spy glanced between it and Sniper. “Child.”

“Snob.”

While Sniper pulled another shirt from his suitcase, muttering under his breath the whole time, Spy retrieve the manila folder they’d received in Miami. He flipped it open, reading back over the file on their mission. “Now this is interesting.”

“What?” Sniper asked as he yanked a fresh shirt over his head.

“Esker stole an Inviswatch…not surprising, given its usefulness…a retractable blade…expecting resistance, Esker? And…hm.” His brow furrowed.

Sniper came to stand beside him, tucking the last bits of his shirt into his waistline. “What?”

“Esker stole a Dead Ringer.”

“The fuck’s a Dead Ringer?”

Spy opened his mouth to answer—but was cut short by a polite knock at the door. Instantly he snapped the file shut and dropped it back into the suitcase. He whipped his tie off and began to retie it, looking busy as Sniper moved to the door and peered through the eyehole.

Daisy Carmichael’s big brown eyes filled his immediate vision. “S’Daisy,” he hissed.

“Make ‘er go away,” Spy hissed back.

“How ya want me to do that?”

“I ‘ave no idea! Stand close to ‘er, perhaps a whiff of your musk will send ‘er scurrying for a fresh sea breeze!”

Sniper flipped him the bird before opening the door, just enough to greet Daisy—and Isabella Baker, who leaned against the opposite wall with arms folded over her chest. Sniper’s eyes flicked from one woman to the other. “Uh…g’day.”

“Hiya!” Daisy said. She stood on tip-toe in a vain attempt to peek past him. “We were hoping we had the right cabin! You, uh, you mentioned earlier that you had my shoes from last night? And I was hoping I could get my pamphlet back too?”

“Oh, yeah! Sure.” Sniper pulled the pamphlet from his pocket and handed it to her. The heels were by the door, and he bent to retrieve them. “Told ya they wouldn’t fit, Phil!”

“It takes a big man to admit ‘is even bigger feet aren’t meant for such delicate footwear,” Spy shot back from across the room. “Well done, Lawrence.”

A laugh escaped Daisy as she took her shoes back. “That’s not the only reason we came by.” She looked to Baker, who sighed and moved to stand beside Daisy. She had removed the red wig and most of the makeup, but she still cut a far different figure in everyday wear.

When Baker didn’t say anything, Daisy nudged her. The silent prompt had Baker clearing her throat. “We were wondering if you’d like to join us for dinner again tonight.”

Spy practically materialized beside Sniper. Sniper just blinked. “Really?”

“Absolutely!” Daisy beamed. “We had such a good time last night…it’ll be fun!”

“For some of us,” Baker muttered.

Daisy dug an elbow into Baker’s ribs, making the taller woman scowl and mutter. Sniper and Spy missed it; They were too busy glancing at each other with eyebrows raised.

“So, what do you say?” Daisy asked, as Baker rubbed at her chest. “It won’t be as fancy as last night, but we promise we’ll have a good time!”

Spy smiled politely. “Give us a moment to discuss, will you?”

“Sure thing.”

The instant the door closed the two men pivoted to stare at each other. Spy clasped his hands together. “Point and counterpoint.”

“On the count of three.” Sniper nodded. He held up three fingers, and quickly counted down again. “One…two…three!”

The words “free dinner!” and “we don’t ‘ave time for this!” echoed at the same time.

“Counterpoint to counterpoint: could be fun,” Sniper said. He then swept one arm out, giving Spy the metaphorical floor.

“Rebuttal.” Spy poked him in the chest. “We’re not ‘ere to ‘ave fun! Every moment we’re dallying with pleasantries is a moment Esker is running amok!”

Sniper allowed his aviators to slip down his nose a little, all the better to stare at Spy. “You’re gonna turn down a dinner with _Isabella Baker_?”

“Ad hominem!” Spy exclaimed. “You neither knew nor cared who Isabella Baker was before yesterday!”

“Well, now I do, and I say that you turnin’ her down for dinner is a right proper shame, Phil. A right proper shame.”

The way Sniper clucked his tongue had Spy seeing red. He curled his hand into a fist, ready to deck the Aussie—and then logic chimed in, reminding him of the two women outside the door. Two women who were, more like than not, listening intently. Baker, after all, had already proven herself quite competent in the art of subterfuge. Griffin’s antics had interrupted their earlier conversation…this could be an illuminating second chance to delve into her psyche.

Mind decided, Spy relaxed his fist. He mouthed ‘I’m going to kill you’ at the smirking Sniper before yanking the door open again—which had Daisy jumping backwards from the heavy oaken door.

“We’d be happy to join ya,” Sniper said.

“Some of us,” Spy added.

A corner of Baker’s mouth twitched upwards.

**…**

“So I’m standin’ there, no pants, one boot on—the dingo has my hat, the redhead is screamin’ bloody murder, bucket full of snakes at my feet—”

Spy had heard this particular story so often he could practically tell it himself. He sliced through a tender piece of steak, watching Sniper out of the corner of his eye. The Aussie waved a bread roll around dramatically, using it as his prop bucket of snakes to illustrate what happened next.

Daisy had her chin in her hands and her mouth agape. Her brown eyes shone with delight. Baker was decidedly less impressed. She sat back with a lit cigarette dangling between her fingers. Her expression remained completely neutral—only warming whenever she glanced in the awestruck Daisy’s direction.

“…and that’s the story,” Sniper finished with a shrug of modesty.

Daisy exploded into a round of wild applause, causing heads to swivel to their table. While not quite the gala last night’s welcoming party had been, this onboard restaurant was still swanky enough that Daisy’s interruption had eyebrows arching. The conductor of the small band playing in the corner shot her a dirty look.

Baker crushed the dog end of her cigarette in an ashtray. “You have quite the number of stories. Mister Mundy. I daresay I believe only half of them.”

“Well, I liked it!” Daisy said. She picked up her wineglass and toasted Sniper. “Cheers! To the dingo!”

“Which one?” Baker and Spy asked in unison. Their eyes locked. Spy managed a polite smile, but Baker just looked away. She stood, suddenly, and muttered something about needing fresh air. Her heels clicked across the hardwood, and heads swiveled to watch her retreat through the glass doors to the balcony.

Daisy frowned as she watched Baker’s retreat. “I’m sorry about her. She’s been miserable since this morning. Nearly bit my head off for trying to ask how yoga went. I promise, she’s not always so…”

“Abrasive?” Spy suggested.

Sniper shrugged. “Eh. I’m used to it.”

Spy ignored the jab. He rested his chin in his hand, watching Baker through the glass. She was patting around her dress in search of something—her cigarette case, no doubt, which happened to be sitting by Daisy’s elbow. “She’s been irritable since this morning?” he asked, in the same tone one might inquire about the weather.

“Yeah.” Daisy stabbed at her baked potato in clear irritation.

“Well, it isn’t the exercise for everyone.” Spy stood, stretched, and smoothly swiped Baker’s cigarette case from the table. “If you’ll pardon me a moment, I myself would enjoy a smoke break.”

The quick retreat had Daisy doing a double-take. “Is he always…?”

“About the same as yours?” Sniper replied. He leaned over and helped himself to Spy’s untouched baked potato. “Yeah.”

**…**

The door to the balcony opened and shut with a small click. Wind and waves muffled the band’s music. Baker leaned over the railing. She looked untouchable in her pure white dress, and unapproachable with the scowl on her face.

Spy approached anyway.

Baker stiffened when he leaned back against the rail beside her. “I’m not going to _sign_ anything, if that’s what you’re after.”

“I’m a wealthy enough man, I ‘ave no need for collectable trinkets. ‘owever…” He extended her cigarette case out to her. “I also know it’s difficult to smoke a cigarette without your cigarettes.”

She hesitated, visibly, before accepting her own belongings back. A faint crease appeared in her forehead, and for a moment her guard vanished. Behind her eyes Spy could see the confusion, the frustration, and the faintest hint of fear.

“I upset you this morning.” He spoke slowly. “I apologize for that. It was never my intention to make you feel threatened.”

Baker didn’t reply immediately. She studied him, the furrow in her brow deepening as she did so. Spy stood completely still under her scrutinizing gaze. There was a mutual interrogation in process here. After a minute she spoke, cherry-picking each word: “I’m used to feeling threatened. The price one pays for fame and fortune. I’m simply not used to being uncovered so quickly.” She turned away. “I half-expected you to go gallivanting off to all my various wish-wishers and…” She glanced over her shoulder, snorting at the people staring out at them “…admirers.”

“I became somewhat preoccupied, if you recall. And in any case, I’m older and wiser than the average member of the paparazzi.” 

Still she continued to look him up and down. “People like to take advantage of my presence. Make themselves look good in my proximity.”

“On my honor, Mademoiselle Baker, that I ‘ave not breathed a word. It is not my secret to tell.” Once more he touched his mask. “As I said, I understand the need for discretion.”

Her whiskey-brown eyes lingered on his masked face. Something shifted behind her eyes. “Perhaps I was too quick to judge to you.”

“Judge away. It won’t change anything,” Spy said. “Though I will say, you make a better brunette than a redhead.”

A soft noise that might have been a chuckle left her. Yes, Spy thought as she ran a hand through her dark brown hair, that was her color. Not red—not like Esker, who was still lurking around here somewhere. He pressed a finger to his temple. Esker, the alexandrite, the stolen Inviswatch and Dead Ringer…all the pieces were beginning to swirl around in his head like an unpleasantly chunky piña colada.

A faint, familiar note struck through the noise in his head. Spy looked up, back through the glass at the band.

“Ah. _Por una Cabeza_, if I’m not mistaken.”

Baker tilted her head to the side. “You have an ear for music, Monsieur Phil.”

“A gentleman is always familiar with the classics.” He turned back to her, suddenly inspired. There would never be an opportunity like this again. Spy took a step back and held a hand out. “Would you care to dance?”

Baker stared. “You’re asking me?”

“I’m certainly not asking my stalwart Australian companion.”

Still she frowned before gesturing to the space separating his head from hers. Spy was no slouch (unless he was standing next to Sniper which, unfortunately, he usually was), but Baker had a full two inches on him. “Most men are intimidated by women taller than they are.”

To that Spy just smiled. “I am not most men.”

And, at last, Isabella Baker smiled. “Consider me intrigued, Monsieur Vidal.”

It had been ages since Spy had last tangoed. Not that it mattered. That was the brilliant thing about the tango, the thing that made it sublime: when it came to the tango, one simply had to tango on.

All eyes were on them as he led Baker onto the dance floor in front of the band. He slipped a hand around her waist, keeping his tough light. Baker smiled as she wrapped an arm around his shoulder. Their free hands folded together, their bodies pressed against one another, and as the band struck up they danced.

Spy led, Baker followed. Their steps were small and quick at first, a review of basic steps as they learned the cues and contours of each other’s bodies. But as the music played on their steps grew in confidence, striking out in an intricate improvised dance.

Baker’s reputation preceded her; she moved with an inherent grace, effortlessly following Spy’s lead. Together they glided across the dance floor, seeing nothing but the other’s grin. Her heel slid between Spy’s oxfords, brushed the inside of his leg in what others might mistaken for a flirty gesture. Spy knew it for a challenge. He smiled, pulled Baker closer, and spun in an elegant arch across the dance floor.

Across the small restaurant, Sniper and Daisy watched their partners. Daisy leaned so far forward her stomach almost dug into the table. Her eyes were wide, adoring, and yet oddly sad. Sniper noted her wistful expression. “Bet you wish that was you, huh?”

“Yeah,” Daisy sighed. She caught herself with a cough. “Dancing with Philippe, I mean. He’s a wonderful dancer.”

“Eh.” Sniper took a contemplative sip of wine. His own eyes never left Spy. “He’s all right.”

Passion was inherent to the tango, and as Spy and Baker danced a sort of electricity filled the air around them. It was passion there, yes, but not the passion of lovers, which was hot and heavy and breathless. This was sharp and bright and electrifying. This was like acknowledging like, the unmistakable spark of recognition between two souls. It was a passion that said _I see you_ and _well, let’s have a little fun while we’re here_.

Their dance ended as the final note faded. The restaurant broke out into wild applause and cheers, but Spy and Baker kept their gaze on each other even as they stepped apart. Spy sunk into a low bow, and Baker replied with a curtsy.

“Thank you.” She said. “You’re a wonderful dancer.”

“The honor was mine, Mademoiselle.” Spy tapped a finger to his forehead before leading her back to the dinner table.

Daisy huffed as they approached. “Showoffs! How are we supposed to top that, huh?”

“Perhaps you ought to try for a roll-eating world record?” Baker replied as she sank back into her seat. “You’re more than halfway there, Day.”

“Oh, go to hell, Bella! I’ve only eaten three!”

The women set into a merry sort of bickering. Sniper took advantage of their distraction to lean in towards Spy. “Where’d you learn to bloody dance like _that_?” He asked in a low tone.

“I ‘ave a great many talents, Lawrence.” Spy replied. He couldn’t help the rush of satisfaction at the thunderstruck look on Sniper’s face. Then his gaze locked on someone standing in the far corner of the restaurant. “A proper Spy is ready for anything, at any given time.”

Across the room Cloak scowled, folded his arms over his chest, and looked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After two weeks of trying to write the tango scene I never want to hear "Por una Cabeza" again. 
> 
> Ciao for now!
> 
> Chaos


	8. Conflicts of Interests

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to another chapter! This one was a pain to write, but in the end I'm happy with the result. 
> 
> As always, thanks to Belphegor for the speedy beta, and to Schnozzbun and Shpeeper as well. I was stumped on a name for this chapter until their fic, Conflicts of Interest, updated. Be sure to give it a read!

**Chapter Seven: Conflicts of Interests**

Spy snapped his cigarette lighter closed and pocketed it. Instantly the smell of burning tobacco and spices filled the captain’s cabin. He took a drag off his cigarette, but his hardened eyes never left Cloak. The younger spy stood at the window behind his desk. He stared outwards, hands clasped behind his back and adamantly refusing to acknowledge Spy.

The tension in the room was almost tangible. It grew heavier and heavier, thick blankets covering each man in the room until he threatened to suffocate.

“Do you know what we call a cat that cannot catch a mouse?” Spy asked at last.

“A shitty cat?”

It was Sniper who answered. Of the three men convened in the captain’s cabin, he alone looked any amount of content. He sat in the squishy guest seat, with boots propped up on the mahogany desk and arms tucked behind his head. Sniper had slid his akubra over his eyes, but he couldn’t hide the fanged grin.

“Indeed,” said Spy, who gave Sniper the most cursory of glances before continuing. “It ‘as been two days, and Esker ‘asn’t left us as much as a scrap of paper, never mind one of ‘is charming little swans. A game of cat-and-mouse is difficult to play when the mouse doesn’t show.”

“With three cats sitting around waiting to catch him, there’s not much incentive for the mouse to show up!” Cloak snapped. He wrenched his gaze from the window to glare at Spy. “_You’re_ the RED Spy. From what I’ve heard of you, all you have to do is snap your fingers and a man drops dead. Can’t you do something more useful than standing here and complaining?”

Spy’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Mind your tone, _boy_.”

“_Don’t call me boy_,” Cloak snarled.

“Why ever not? If I wanted to trade wits with a petulant, sulking twentysomething, I ‘ave my pick topside—”

“—sulking? You’re one to talk!—”

“That’s enough.”

Sniper’s low tone ended the fight before it started. Spy and Cloak were inches from each other’s faces, both with fists clenched. Sniper tilted his akubra up to frown at them both.

Cloak rounded on him with a scowl. “And _you_! Resting on your laurels, acting like this is some great big joke! Catching one petty thief doesn’t mean your mission is accomplished!”

Spy arched his eyebrows. For a second Sniper just stared at Cloak. Then, slowly, almost thoughtfully, he took his boots from the desk. He stood to his full height, towering head and shoulders over Cloak, and lowered his aviators to study the younger man.

“If I needed something squawkin’ at me all day, I’d buy a parrot. Now sit down and shut up, before I knock your teeth out. One. By. One.”

Cloak sat. 

“Good man,” Sniper said. He pushed his aviators up his nose once more. “Esker’s confident enough to let us know he’s here, and smart enough not to tell us where. You ever been hunting, Cloak?”

“Once or twice,” Cloak said warily.

“When prey goes to ground, goes somewhere you can’t reach, that’s when ya light a fire and flush ‘em out of the brush.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we stick a fire under Esker’s arse,” Sniper said.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Short of lightin’ a fire onboard? A trap. Something Esker couldn’t possibly resist.”

Spy, meanwhile, had moved to the wide window overlooking the pool on the main deck. From here he could see men and women splashing around in the crystal-clear water. There seemed to be a game of sorts happening: a woman would clamber up onto a man’s shoulders, and then go up against a similarly-mounted woman. It was a wrestling contest of sorts, only won when one couple finally splashed under the water.

“Bushman,” said Spy, “do you recall the name of that gameshow Pyro and Soldier enjoy? With the newlyweds?”

“_The Newlywed Game_?” Sniper answered, bemused.

“Yes, that’s the one.” Spy turned away from the window, looking back to Sniper and Cloak. “Quite an appealing show, no? Young lovers, the thrill of competition, an eager audience—and _prizes_.”

His meaning was instantly clear. Cloak sat up a little straighter. “You think he’d fall for it?”

“Why ever not? Esker ‘as to make use of those tools ‘e stole from Mann Co. before long. A substantial cash prize might provide incentive enough. ‘e might even make an appearance among the participants with ‘is wife.”

To that Sniper scoffed. “You think he’d be fool enough to do that?”

“Esker is arrogant. Why else leave little calling cards at the scenes of ‘is crimes? ‘is type needs attention. Needs an _audience_. We’ll provide ‘im with one.”

Cloak steepled his fingers in thought. “Okay, so—we organize a Newlywed game. I can do that, just need to get the paperwork squared away. Then what?”

“You’ll be onstage, of course, giving the audience your winning charm,” Spy said. He moved away from the window, back towards Sniper. “The bushman and I will be in the audience, watching.”

“Weapons at the ready?” Cloak asked.

Spy managed a faint smile. “But of course.”

Once the finer details had been sorted, Sniper and Spy excused themselves from the captain’s cabin. Sniper waited until they were a few safe corridors over before heaving a sigh. He hooked his thumbs into his pockets.

“That outta keep him busy for a day. Gives us room to breathe, at any rate.”

Spy gave him a level look. “Once—just _once_—I would like to play the role of the one who sits and smirks, and _you_ can draw all the ire.”

“What for? You’re so damn good at pissin’ people off.”

“Consider it one of my many and varied talents. I—where are you going?”

Spy had started forward down the next corridor, expecting to feel Sniper’s presence behind him as usual. Instead Sniper had turned, making for the stairwell that led to the main deck. Both men stopped short, staring at each other in surprise.

“Made plans with Daisy,” Sniper said. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “We’re gonna head to the gym, check out that rock wall they got set up. ‘Course, she’s probably lost somewhere in the engine room by now…”

“And where I was when these plans were made?” Spy demanded. His stomach clenched in irritation.

“She invited me while you were busy usin’ up all the hot water in the shower. Would’ve said something sooner, but Cloak dragged us into his cabin first,” Sniper said. He tilted his head to the side; he hadn’t missed the annoyance darting across Spy’s face. “You wanna join? Miss Baker might be there.”

The second-to-last thing he needed to do today was watch Sniper make a fool of himself on some plastic rock wall in a smelly gym. The absolute last thing he needed to do today was make a fool of himself. Spy sniffed and tugged at his collar. “I will abstain.”

Nevertheless Sniper hesitated. “You sure?”

“Go.” Spy waved a hand around. “I will not begrudge you the thrill of climbing a wall. Try not to fall and crack your ‘ead open. Your wits are addled enough as it is.”

“Still makes me the brains of this operation,” Sniper fired back. He turned and descended quickly down the stairs.

Spy stared after him, long after Sniper had vanished. The odd feeling in his stomach, the clenching he associated with a bad meal, had not dissipated. Odd. Perhaps he had eaten something sour at breakfast. That had to be the only explanation. It certainly had little—_nothing_—to do with Sniper going off without him. Why should it? He was a grown man, he was allowed to spend his time as he liked, with who he liked. The twist in his gut was the result of a bad fruit. No more, no less.

Quick footfalls had his head turning. Cloak stopped short as he rounded the corner. “Oh. I thought you’d be elsewhere by now.”

“So did I,” said Spy. “Off to make your rounds as dear Captain Dave?”

“My audience awaits,” Cloak said. He ran a hand down his pressed white uniform.

For a moment they looked at each other, both uncertain of how to proceed. Idle conversations weren’t exactly easy between spies.

“You’ve ‘eard tales of me?” Spy asked at last. He pulled his cigarette case from an inner pocket and snapped it open. He sank down onto the stairwell and gestured for Cloak to join him.

“All sorts of odd tales have trickled out of New Mexico.” Cloak’s smile was thin. He gave Spy a slow once-over, clearly disappointed by what he saw. “Even if I only believed a quarter of them, the mercenaries of Reliable Excavation and Demolition would sound…superhuman. Echelon, Citadel…even Vanguard…they’d have me thinking your team is a bunch of unkillable killing machines.”

And wasn’t that the truth of it, Spy thought. Nine unkillable killing machines who woke up every morning, drank their coffee, and headed off into an endless war. It didn’t surprise him, the fact that stories of their mercenary work, of their gravel wars, had leaked. The resources Mann Co. sank into keeping the war alive no doubt raised many a covert agent’s eyebrow. He and the rest of the REDs were legends in their specialized fields, the best of the best, the ones who could kill and be killed, every day, without hesitation or pause. Superhumans, yes. That. Exactly that. Except…

Except the RED Scout traded comic books with the BLU Scout when they thought no one was looking. Except that Heavy could recite Russian poetry and Medic had read Jane Eyre three times. Except Demoman bickered with Soldier daily over the superior version of football, but they were the first to cheer on each other’s teams. Except Engineer had taken pains to weld each of their class symbols out of scrap medal, and Pyro had painted them. Except Sniper never shot at the BLU Engineer unless he could ensure a quick, painless death.

They had hobbies and quirks and connections, in way that were not perhaps prudent for your average mercenary. Perhaps that was why they had been hired. Watching a bunch of grim, grizzled warriors who took war for duty couldn’t be nearly as fun as the merry chaos his dear teammates caused.

“You should think twice about what you hear,” was all Spy had to say to Cloak.

Cloak’s thin smile stretched over his face. “Isn’t that what a good spy does?”

Spy cocked an eyebrow at him. He looked him over carefully, more carefully than he had at the start. Cloak looked to be in his early thirties, although facial hair did wonders for adding on the years. He was a tall man, more broad-shouldered than Sniper, fit and athletic. He had a flair for the dramatic and a willingness not to pull punches. He could have been a great many things. But he had chosen to be a killer.

_So did you_.

“What brought you into the mercenary business?” Spy found himself asking.

Cloak sat up sharply. “Is this a round of twenty questions?”

“You should be flattered I’m asking, and not drawing your secrets out one by one.”

The younger spy was not so easily swayed. “Why did you?”

Because there had been ash in his mouth and blood on his hands. Because the Viper had smiled that crooked little smile and promised that they would all die screaming.

“Because I was good at it,” Spy said flatly. “Now answer the question.”

“Because I’m good at it,” Cloak echoed.

When he grinned it was all Spy could do not to stab his cigarette through his eye. As it was, he took his cigarette from his mouth and exhaled smoke. “You like killing, you mean.”

“Don’t we all? I’ve never heard of a squeamish mercenary,” said Cloak. He flicked an invisible bit of dust off his pressed white shirt.

_You’ve never met Blake Porter._

When Spy didn’t immediately answer, Cloak cocked his head to the side. “Do you like killing?”

“On occasion.” Spy kept his face impassive. There were moments he loved killing. When he bet his life against the BLU Spy’s, when he had his tête-à-tête with the BLU Sniper, when his blade sank deep into an enemy’s back or across their throat. Those were moments he adored killing, when he relished the taste of blood between his teeth. He liked killing quite a lot. Perhaps that was the particular quirk that had earned him on a spot on RED.

“I thought so. Being a good mercenary means you do the job. And if you have a good time doing it…” Cloak shrugged. “All the better.”

_He’s a boy_. The realization stabbed at him, mixed irritation and pity sharpening into a painful edge. A callow boy chasing his whims and desires, making a game of killing for coin. Even his codename was the ridiculous sort of name a child chose for themselves, when they wanted to play at espionage. “A word of advice,” he said, before he could stop himself.

That seemed to amuse Cloak. “Advice from on high, from the sage master of RED?”

“Advice from someone who ‘as killed ‘is fair share of insolent pups,” Spy said, now wishing he’d never spoken at all.

“Let’s hear it, then.”

“Do not let your indulgences become your hobbies. Hobbies become habits. Wine, women…killing…heroin…” He looked pointedly at Cloak’s arm, Cloak who instinctively grabbed his arm with his other hand. “Whatever it is, it will drive you to the point of obsession. Consume you. Until you turn to ash. Do you understand?”

Cloak’s grip on his arm tightened. He lurched to his feet with a scowl. “You don’t know a goddamn thing!”

“I know several goddamn things,” Spy replied, “otherwise I would not be sitting ‘ere now. Tell me,” he sat forward with elbows on his knees, “was it the drugs that led to you killing, or killing that led you to the drugs?”

“Fuck you,” Cloak hissed. He made to stalk off, but another word from Spy stopped him short:

“It will kill you.”

What little emotion Spy had allowed himself was gone. He had not gotten to his feet, had not moved an inch. His gray-blue eyes were flat and empty as a predator’s. “It may be a knife by inches. Or it may be swift as a bullet. But it will kill you. A good spy tempers his impulses. The best ‘ave mastery over them. The rest…” he trailed off, leaving his threat hanging in the air between them.

Cloak stared at him. For a long moment the two spies held each other’s gaze: Cloak with low-simmering fury, Spy with nothing at all. The silence stretched onwards, drawing tight as a bowstring.

Cloak broke first. He looked away, grabbed at his arm, and then snorted. “Whatever you say, _Dad_.”

He stormed off, leaving Spy to shake his head and crush his spent cigarette underfoot.

…

Sniper grinned up at Daisy. The blonde clung to the plastic rocky wall ten feet above. She was properly outfitted for the venture, with a helmet and a harness connecting her to a release mechanism above. And a good thing too; her grip on the rocky wall was white. Her face, on the other hand, flushed red with excitement. She glanced down at Sniper, only a foot below, and then at Baker beside her.

“Ooooh, this is high. This is VERY high.”

Baker chuckled. “This is hardly the highest _you’ve_ ever been, Day.”

“Can it, Bella, you know what I mean!”

Below Sniper snorted. “This—” With a grunt he reached for the next handhold, pulling himself parallel with Daisy “—ain’t high t’all. Ya sound like a cluckin’ chicken there, kid.”

“I do not,” Daisy retorted. She frowned at Sniper, who, unlike herself or Baker, had no protective equipment. When the unsuspecting attendant offered him a harness for the rock wall, all they had gotten in return was a flat look. “You don’t think this is high?”

“I’ve been up and down Mount Arapiles twice. This—” He heaved himself up, higher than Daisy and Baker “—is nothin’. C’mon, kid, you’re from Vermont. Don’t they have mountains and shit?”

“I liked hiking the trails,” Daisy replied. She waited for Baker to begin her ascent. Only then did she follow, gingerly feeling her way towards the next handhold. “But I’m not much one for climbing. Precipices, and all.” She hoisted herself upwards, thin arms shaking with the effort to do that much. “Any advice?”

“Don’t look down.”

“Brilliant. Thanks.”

They were nearing the top of the rock wall now, and the footholds were growing further apart. Daisy struggled with the climb, flattening herself against the wall and taking her own sweet time reaching for the next grip. Baker, by contrast, moved with ease, muscles bulging as she climbed. She and Sniper never moved too far beyond Daisy, however. They waited, with the patience only loved ones and snipers were capable of. 

When at last Daisy rang the bell at the very top of the wall, Sniper grinned and rappelled down with lighting speed. Daisy rolled her eyes, Baker grinned, and together they slowly bounced back down with the harnesses.

They were on the mat and unbuckling before Daisy spoke again: “You free climb?” she asked Sniper.

“Sometimes.”

“Aren’t you a little old for that?”

“Kicked your arse goin’ up and down, didn’t I?”

Baker laughed as she took off her helmet. False red hair cascaded down her shoulders, hiding her from onlookers in the gym. Not that anyone in the gym was paying particular attention to the three, who had moved off to the side to untangle themselves. Baker grinned at Daisy’s dark look. “He’s got a point.”

“His legs are just long, that’s all.” Daisy huffed and flung herself down on the matted floor. She absorbed herself in the task of untying her boots, leaving Baker to turn to Sniper.

“Mount Arapiles? Is that dangerous?”

“Only if ya don’t know what you’re doin’.”

The first time he’d climbed Arapiles had been for fun. The second had been under contract. The wilderness made for beautiful places—and deadly ones. One false grip, one uncertain step, and a man could go crashing fifty feet down the jagged face of a mountain. That was for the best; a smashed skull easily hid any bullet holes in the head.

“I’ll have to try it sometime,” Baker was saying. She drew her hair into a ponytail and began to tie it.

“Consider yourself a thrill seeker, then?”

A corner of her mouth twitched upwards. From her back pocket she produced a battered Yankees cap, sliding it over her false red hair. “A burgeoning one. Celebrity or no, you don’t get to see much of the world when you’re stuck behind plane windows and rehearsal schedules. Day and I are in agreement on that.”

“Speak for yourself!” Daisy was now flat on her back, tugging at the stubborn boot stuck to her foot. When she failed to dislodge it she groaned and flopped backwards. “Bella!”

Baker was beside her in an instant. She pressed a hand to Daisy’s shoulder, scolding her gently and smiling.

Sniper watched the mundane interaction carefully, trying to put himself outside his knowledge. To onlookers, they were friends, perhaps the very best of friends, as Daisy grumbled about ropes and knots and Bella laughed. The hand on Daisy’s shoulder could have been platonic. Casual contact between two gal pals, easy enough to dismiss. Except…

Except for the warmth in Baker’s whiskey brown eyes. Except for the glances at Daisy, the same longing looks Christian gave Lizzie when he thought no one was looking.

_Romance_, Lawrence Mundy thought with a shake of his head. He’d never understand it. 

…

It there was one thing to be said about travel by sea, it was that there was an awful lot of blue involved. Blue water. Blue sky. Blue on blue. Blue fading into blue, if you looked too far down the horizon. If you weren’t inclined to watch the goings-on aboard the _Azure Princess_, the only respite was the blue on blue on blue. Except for the occasional cloud, that is.

Daisy squinted up at one such cloud now. She leaned forward against the railing, sitting some fruity tropical drink with a pink straw. Sniper stood beside her, watching the same cloud.

“Think it could be rain?”

“Nah. S’just a blot of moisture.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Afraid of gettin’ wet?”

“No.” She tossed her hair over one shoulder. “I just don’t want to be delayed in getting to Portofino.” She waved a hand around. “This is getting me all…antsy. Y’know, cabin fever and stuff. Plus I don’t want to miss the gemstone exhibit.” She drummed her fingers against the rail in an oddly agitation fashion.

Sniper turned so he had his back against the railing and folded his arms over his chest. It was just the two of them; Baker had consented to playing the celebrity for a little while, much as she seemed to dislike it. “Big fan of shiny rocks?”

“Oh, yes.” Daisy nodded. “I like to find inspiration for my designs in nature. Rocks and flowers and…well, maybe not the sea so much anymore. Too much sea to see.”

“And Miss Baker?”

“She just like shinies.”

_She ain’t the only one. _

“Is that how you two go to bondin’? Shinies?”

“A little.” Daisy shrugged. “Truth be told, we loathed each other when we first met. I was some nobody from Podunk, USA, and she was _Isabella Baker_. The classically-trained dance prodigy, the beauty queen from on high gracing us mere mortals with her presence.” She pressed a hand to her chest in mocking import. “She wouldn’t give me the time of day, much less a please or a thank you. God, she was _such _a _bitch_.”

“So what happened?”

“Bella kept complaining to the costumers about this dress she had to wear during bows. It’s too tight, it’s too loose, I can’t breathe in it—like, damn, woman, at that point you’re onstage for like, two minutes! Live with it! But of course you couldn’t tell her that.” Daisy rolled her eyes, still exasperated with her paramour after all this time. “Truth of the matter was, she didn’t like the color. Well, too bad. She didn’t have to like the color. It’s all part of the show. It’s _symbolism_. I was a junior costumer at the time, but when she made my mentor cry I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“You argued?”

“Argued is a word, sure. More like we went twelve rounds in this huge screaming match. You could hear it clear across the theater. I knew it was going to cost me my job, and maybe all the prospects I had in New York. I didn’t care. All I knew was that I wasn’t going to ley anyone treat me like that.”

“And in the end?”

“She invited me to lunch.”

Sniper arched an eyebrow. “After all that.”

“Yep! Apparently, most crewmembers kissed her butt or just told her what she wanted to hear so she’d shut up. I didn’t tolerate her bullshit. I was honest with her. She respected that.” She grinned, a brilliant smile that gave her dimples. “And we’ve been giving each other hell ever since.”

Sniper nodded. “Sounds like you two are a good fit.”

Conversation lapsed for a time. The Azure Princess chugged ever onwards into the blue. On the decks below people shouted and laughed. Someone somewhere was playing Credence Clearwater Revival. Sniper may not have been one for music, but CCR was a mainstay in Engineer’s box of records, and he found himself nodding along to the distant lyrics.

_I see a bad moon a-rising/I see trouble on the way/I see earthquakes and lightnin'/I see bad times today…_

“So…what about you and Philippe?”

_Don't go 'round tonight/It's bound to take your life/There's a bad moon on the rise…_

The question was a little too pointed for Sniper’s liking. He lowered his aviators to fix her with a stare. “How d’ya mean?”

“An Australian bushwhacker and a French dandy. It _is_ the start of a bad joke. How’d you two meet?”

_I hear hurricanes a-blowing/I know the end is coming soon/I fear rivers overflowing/I hear the voice of rage and ruin…_

He could still remember it, clear as day, even after all these years. Their paths had crossed for the briefest of moments in the lobby of Reliable Excavation and Demolition. Sniper had met Spy’s faze for an instant, and in that split-second he hated him.

Spy had been wearing a suit then too: black, sharp, with a red tie for emphasis. He’d worn a mask then too, a gray balaclava that hid everything but his hard eyes and his hard mouth. Posh, Sniper had thought at once. He knew the type: businessmen, idle folk, the stuffy intellectuals who looked down on folk who worked with their hands. He’d just signed on with RED, though, had the lucrative contract had put a bright smile on his face. One overdressed peacock was no concern of his. Until—

“He tripped me into a koi pond.”

Daisy burst out laughing. “That’s how you two became friends?”

“Well, no. S’just how we met. We didn’t becomes friends til…”

Sniper trailed off. When had he and Spy become friends? What had been the one defining moment? Surely there was one. All great partnerships had them—or, at least, that’s what he’d been led to believe. Was it finding Spy panicked and bloodied in the BLU sewer? Had it been inviting Spy home for the holidays? Exploring the Outback—fighting the croc—the drunken confessions—saving each other’s hides from GI’s robotic security? Had he and Spy actually become friends? Had it been an active decision on either man’s part, or had they just tripped and fell into the thing together?

_I hope you got your things together/I hope you are quite prepared to die/Looks like we're in for nasty weather/One eye is taken for an eye…_

Daisy stirred her drink and waited for an answer.

“We didn’t become friends ‘til we got to know each other,” Sniper finally said, hating how weak the answer was.

“And how’d you manage that?”

“_Meanin’_?”

“Well—” Daisy shrugged “—Bella and I like theater. We both love a good adventure. We both like shiny things. You and Philippe…well, you don’t seem to have much in common. What does an Australian bushwhacker chat about with a French dandy?”

Killing men, he could have told her. Killing men who come back for more every day.

Instead he scowled down at her, lips pulled back to reveal canine teeth.

“He and I are the only two people in this world who ain’t complete damn fools. And that’s good enough for us.”

…

The blue sky had finally washed away into the blood-red of sunset. Red skies at night, sailor’s delight, or so the saying went.

Sniper sighed and rested his head back against the stack spewing white smoke. Technically the topmost deck was off-limits to guests, but Sniper had never been one to let a technicality stop him. He’d needed to think, goddamn it, and that was hard to do in a crowd. Height was solitude, and solitude was peace.

He had a lit cigarette in one hand and Lizzie’s picture in the other. A soft breeze fluttered both the picture and his hair. Cigarette smoke wafted up and into the breeze, dispersing to parts unknown.

Funny. In his forty-three years of living, this was the first time solitude had felt so lonely.

_You and Philippe…well, you two don’t seem to have much in common._

The remark had been innocent enough. And Daisy had had a good point besides. To outsiders, he and Spy fit as well as a left foot in a right shoe. He knew that. Spy knew that. It had never been a problem before. But something it stuck in his craw nevertheless. Maybe because no one had ever been so blatant about their contrast before.

He was an outdoorsman. Spy was an urbanite. Spy liked intellectual things, like wine and theater and books. He liked sleeping in the sun and tracking animals through the brush. Spy had an interest in fashion and suits; outside of his akubra, Sniper couldn’t give two shits about his appearance. They had different interests and hobbies, yes, they knew that about each other. It had never been an issue before. It had never impeded them, the fact that he couldn’t tango and Spy couldn’t free climb.

It wasn’t such a terrible thing in and of itself. In the day-to-day of their lives, perhaps it was all right if the only thing they had in common was killing BLUs (although, he supposed, that didn’t really qualify as a hobby). But if he _did _retire…

Would he and Spy keep in touch? He liked to think so. They had earned that privilege with each other. Would Spy want to keep in touch? Now that was a different question altogether. Spy had no one in his life. He didn’t make causal phone calls or write letters, and any extended forays off-base seemed limited to clandestine meetings with the BLU Scout’s mother. Would Spy put the necessary effort into maintaining a friendship half a world away?

Yes, of course, he wanted to say. Of course he would. You’re his best friend.

But wanting it to be true and knowing it to be true were two very different things.

And even if he didn’t retire…someday, the RED contract would end. He and the rest of the REDs would shake hands, bid fond farewells, and go back to their lives. What of he and Spy then? Letters and phone calls would be impossible if Spy dove back into the espionage business. Sniper himself would definitely want to retire by then. For one fleeting moment he imagined Spy retiring alongside him.

No. A snowball would survive hell before Spy retired to _Australia_.

He didn’t tango, Spy didn’t free climb, and there would come a day when they would go their separate ways.

And for Sniper—solitary, quiet Sniper, who’d never needed anyone at his back—the thought was oddly painful.

The hatch to the rooftop opened and closed, and the familiar squeak of expensive Italian leather followed.

“I thought I might find you ‘ere,” Spy said as he came around the corner. “Looking to snipe a few flowerchildren?”

“Nah. I just needed to think.”

Spy looked down at him, eyes lingering on the photograph in his hand. Without a word Sniper extended it to him. Spy took it, smiling down at Lizzie and Lauren. “Missing them, are you?”

“S’it that obvious?”

“Only to those who know you.” He handed the picture back to Sniper, studying his contemplative expression. “What else is bothering you?”

“Nothing.”

Spy’s face remained neutral, but irritation flickered through his eyes. He was rapidly tiring of that answer. “You really should leave the lying to me, you know. Come.” He stuck a hand out for Sniper to take. “I’m not missing dinner because you decided to brood.”

Sniper grinned and accepted the hand, allowing Spy to haul him up. “Now ya sound like me.”

“Eugh. Perish the thought.” With that, Spy opened the hatch and began to descend once more.

Sniper’s grin faded. He flicked his cigarette away and followed after Spy. He was halfway down the ladder when he stopped. “S’that such a bad thing?” Even as the words left his mouth he winced.

Two rungs down Spy froze. “I beg your pardon?”

“Soundin’ like me. It ain’t the worst thing in the world, is it?”

“I suppose not,” Spy admitted. Then he snorted. “I could sound like Cloak.” He waited until they had both reached the ground floor to give Sniper a sour look. “Why do you ask?”

The sour look had old, familiar hackles rising. Sniper straightened his shoulders even as he fought back a scowl. “S’just…you soundin’ like me can’t be such a horror, can it?”

“If I _ever_ start slipping into an Australian accent, shoot me.”

“Would you ever climb a mountain?”

The outburst brought Spy up short. He stared at Sniper in rare bafflement. Just what was Sniper asking him? What the hell was going on inside the idiot dingo’s head? A long moment paused before he sniffed. “If there were a bottle of Chardonnay at the top, perhaps.”

“And if there ain’t?”

“A gentleman ‘as become a gentleman by virtue of the fact that ‘e does not exert ‘imself so. There’s little elegance to be found at the top of a bloody rock.”

This time the irritation flashed through Sniper’s eyes. He folded his arms over his chest. “You’d think a bloody gentleman would see the use in a new skillset. Expandin’ your horizons, and all that.”

“Would you ever learn ‘ow to tango?” Spy fired back.

Sniper’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Why the bloody hell would I need to learn to tango?”

“And there it is. Why berate me for not _expanding my horizons _when your own map is so tragically small?”

Sniper and Spy stared at each other, frustrated and without a clear idea why. Sniper had his arms folded over his chest; Spy had his hands on his hips. Was this what it had been like when the Tower of Babel fell? Spy wondered. Everything going along quite swimmingly, pass me that hammer please and thank you, and suddenly—suddenly you couldn’t understand the man next to you. Suddenly you were speaking two different languages.

“We don’t got much in common, do we?” Sniper asked in a low voice.

“Come again?”

“Hobbies. Interests. That kinda stuff.”

“We ‘ave plenty in common! Our jobs, for starters—”

“Killin’ BLUs don’t _count_ as a _hobby_, Phil.”

All of Spy’s counterarguments died in his throat. Their taste in music—_no_—in food—_no, not that either_—literature? Fashion? _Fun_? What did Sniper want from him? He scowled up at the man. “So what’s all this about, then? Did you attend one of those self-help panels they’ve been advertising?”

“No!” Sniper shook his head. “Like I said, I was just…thinking.”

Sniper’s evasiveness stabbed at Spy, in a way it hadn’t in a very long time. It shouldn’t have. It should _not_ have. Spies were supposed to work with recalcitrant answers. Spies were not supposed to be hurt by a lack of trust. He was a Spy. He wasn’t _supposed_ to be trusted. He hadn’t forgotten that. Neither, apparently, had Sniper.

“I’ve ‘ad it up to ‘ere with your _thinking_,” he snarled, slashing a hand towards his neck as he did.

The walk back to the room was silent. The awkwardness hung thick in the air between them, heavy and dense as their own personal storm cloud. Somehow they had slipped back to the beginning, back to a pair of strangers heading in the same direction. Neither man said a word. When Spy jammed the key to their cabin into the door, it seemed that the awkwardness was destined to last the entire night.

On the threshold they both stopped short.

The room was exactly how they had left it: suitcases in opposite corners, carafe half-full of decaf coffee sitting in the coffeemaker. Spy had made the bed before they left this morning, and it had remained undisturbed. Everything was in order. Everything was in place. Nothing had been taken.

It was what had been _added _that had Spy clenching his fist and Sniper purpling in rage:

A folded paper swan sat serenely on the bedside table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *drapes self over chair* ANGUISH!
> 
> Now, fanfics are free, and I hope they always remain so. But in times such as these, times when change is necessary and demanded, content creators have the power to help amplify voices. As such, please consider donating to Color of Change to help advocate for social justice: 
> 
> https://colorofchange.org/
> 
> See you soon!
> 
> Chaos


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